iversity  of  Cj 

Southern  Rej 

Library  Fac 


CADept.83 


ISTHMIAN   CANAL    COMMISSION 

DEPARTMENT   OF   CIVIL    ADMINISTRATION 
DIVISION  Of  POLICE  AND   PRISONS 


Ancon,  Canal  Zone,  June 


SPECIAL  ORDER  Ho,  1156  : 


His  voluntary  resignation  having  been  received  and 
Pirst-olaas  Policeman  HARPY  A.  FRAHCK,  Ho.  88,  who  waa  < 
in  the  Canal  Zone  Police  Force  on  March  13,  1912,  is,  w: 
approval  of  the  Acting  Head  of  the  Department  of  Civil  a 
t rat ion, 

DISCHARGED, 
effective  at  the  close  of  business,  June  17,  1912. 

There  is  objection  to  his  reemployment.* 


of 
ice  an*  Prisons. 


*  Any  Zone  Policeman  resigning  within  two  years  of  his   appointment    receh 
"objection  to  reemployment." — H.  A.  F. 


ZONE 
POLICEMAN 

88 


•1W.  OF  GALIF. 


ZONE 
POLICEMAN 

88 

A  CLOSE  RANGE  STUDY  OF  THE 
PANAMA  CANAL  AND  ITS  WORKERS 


BY 

HARRY  A.  FRANCK 

Author  of  "A  Vagabond  Journey  Around  the 

World"  and  "Four  Months 

Afoot  in  Spain" 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1913 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
THE  CEKTUBT  Co. 


PiMuhod,  April,  1913 


TO 
A  HOST  OF  GOOD  FELLOWS 

THE  ZONE  POLICE 


Quito.  December  31, 1918 


2129781 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

The   Zone   Police   mounted   squad  on  "  Aviation 

Day " Frontispiece 

(Photograph  by  Leo  Hays) 

PAGE 

The  "Thousand  Stairs"   .  x. 7 

The    Administration    Building    at    Ancon.     Police    Head- 
quarters is  in  the  nearest  third-story  corner     ...       7 

Corozal  Police  Station 14 

Among  the  ruins  of  Old  Panama 14 

"The   Boss" 41 

Squatter's   hut   built  of  dynamite  boxes   under    a  mango 

tree  in  the  outskirts  of  Empire 41 

A  suburban  dwelling 59 

"  Neuvo  Kingston,"  a  negro  tenement  of  Empire.    Each 
sheet-iron  cooking-place  on  the  veranda  rail  represents 

a   family 59 

"Ah  don'   rightly  know  mah  age,  mahster;  ah  gone  los' 

mah  age  paper" 59 

A  dwelling  in  "  the  bush " 74 

Along  the  P.  R.  R.  in  New  Gatun 74 

"  The  Atlantic  breaking  with  its  ages-old,  mysterious  roll "    84 

A  San  Bias  Indian  Boy 89 

The  end  of  the  noon  hour 89 

"  Toward  noon  the  labor-train  screamed  in "     ....  103 

Laborers  hurrying  to  the  mess-hall 103 

Some    of    the    "Enumerated" 110~ 

An  I.  C.  C.  free  public  school  for  non-whites     ....  126 

A    gang    of    Greeks 126 

Culebra  Island,  Zone  quarantine  station 138 

"  Across  the  bay  on  the  lower  slope  of  a  long  hill  drowsed 

the   city   of    Panama" 138 

A    Zone    Police    launch 151 

Off  on  mounted  patrol 151 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Some  of  the  costs  of  the  canal 157 

Down  the  beat  in  New  Gatun,  the  Caribbean  in  the  dis- 
tance     177 

The  winding  back  road  between  the  two  surviving  Gatuns  177 
Six  witnesses  aggregating  five  nationalities.     Left  to  right: 
two  Turks,  a  Trinidadian,  a  Jamaican,  a  Barbadian, 

an   Italian 188 

Gatun  Police  Station 195 

The  lower  reaches  of  the  Chagres 195 

"  Far  below  were  tiny  men  and  toy  trains "     .     .      .      .210 
"  The  week   never   passed   that   a   group   of  priests    from 
South  America  might   not  be  seen  peering  over  the 

dizzy  precipice  of  Gatun  locks  " 210 

A  Panamanian  policeman  and  a  Z.  P.  "  gum-shoe  "     .      .214 

Mounting  to  Fort  Lorenzo 224 

The  village  from  the   fort 224 

Panama  city  from  Police  Headquarters 233 

"The  Chief"  addresses  the  "crack  shots"  at  the  target 

range 238 

"Zoners"  forced  to  live  in  box-cars  are  furnished  ail  the 

comforts  of  home 238 

A    "Policeman" 251 

Panamanian   convicts 251 

The  grove  at  the  swimming  beach 272 

"  Lieutenant  Long  "  and  "  Sergeant  Jack  " 272 

Cmces   on  the   Chagres 284 

"  Any  hut  might  be  a  hiding-place  " 284 

A  Panamanian  village 291 

"Why,  the  fact  is,"  said  Corporal  Macey 298 

Z.  P.'s  —  plain  and   otherwise 298 

"  B touched  a  match  to  the  thatch  roof  "  304 

The  edge  of  the  drowning  forest 304 

"  They  will  have  forgotten  that  we  paid  $43,000  a  year  for 

oil.  and  negroes  to  pump  it  on  the  pestilent  mosquito  "  309 


ZONE 

POLICEMAN 
88 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 


CHAPTER  I 

STRIP  by  strip  there  opened  out  before  me,  as  I 
climbed  the  "  Thousand  Stairs "  to  the  red- 
roofed  Administration  Building,  the  broad  panorama 
of  Panama  and  her  bay;  below,  the  city  of  closely 
packed  roofs  and  three-topped  plazas  compressed  in 
a  scallop  of  the  sun-gleaming  Pacific,  with  its 
peaked  and  wooded  islands  to  far  Taboga  tilting 
motionless  away  to  the  curve  of  the  earth;  behind, 
the  low,  irregular  jungled  hills  stretching  hazily  off 
into  South  America.  On  the  third-story  landing  I 
paused  to  wipe  the  light  sweat  from  forehead  and 
hatband,  then  pushed  open  the  screen  door  of  the 
passageway  that  leads  to  police  headquarters. 

"  Emm  — What  military  service  have  you  had  ?  M 
asked  "  the  Captain,"  looking  up  from  the  letter  I 
had  presented  and  swinging  half  round  in  his  swivel- 
chair  to  fix  his  clear  eyes  upon  me. 

"  None." 

"No?  "  he  said  slowly,  in  a  wondering  voice;  and 
so  long  grew  the  silence,  and  so  plainly  did  there 

3 


4  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

spread  across  "  the  Captain's "  face  the  unspoken 
question,  "  Well,  then  what  the  devil  are  you  apply- 
ing here  for?  "  that  I  felt  all  at  once  the  stern  neces- 
sity of  putting  in  a  word  for  myself  or  lose  the  day 
entirely. 

"  But  I  speak  Spanish  and  — 

"  Ah ! "  cried  "  the  Captain,"  with  the  rising  in- 
flection of  awakened  interest,  "  That  puts  another 
face  on  the  matter." 

Slowly  his  eyes  wandered,  with  the  far-away  look 
of  inner  reflection,  to  the  vacant  chair  of  "  the 
Chief  "  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  broad  flat  desk, 
then  out  the  wide-open  window  and  across  the  shim- 
mering roofs  of  Ancon  to  the  far  green  ridges  of  the 
youthful  Republic,  ablaze  with  the  unbroken  tropical 
sunshine.  The  whirr  of  a  telephone  bell  broke  in 
upon  his  meditation.  In  sharp,  clear-cut  phrases 
he  answered  the  questions  that  came  to  him  over 
the  wire,  hung  up  the  receiver,  and  pushed  the  ap- 
paratus away  from  him  with  a  forceful  gesture. 

"  Inspector  "  he  called  suddenly ;  but  a  moment 
having  passed  without  response,  he  went  on  in  his 
sharp-cut  tones,  "  How  do  you  think  you  would  like 
police  work  ?  " 

"  I  believe  I  should." 

"  The  Captain  "  shuffled  for  a  moment  one  of  sev- 
eral stacks  of  unfolded  letters  on  his  desk. 

"  Well,  it 's  the  most  thankless  damned  job  in 
Creation,"  he  went  on,  almost  dreamily,  "  but  it  cer- 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  5 

tainly  gives  a  man  much  touch  with  human  nature 
from  all  angles,  and  —  well,  I  suppose  we  do  some 
good.  Somebody  's  got  to  do  it,  anyway." 

"  Of  course  I  suppose  it  would  depend  on  what 
class  of  police  work  I  got,"  I  put  in,  recalling  the 
warning  of  the  writer  of  ray  letter  of  introduction 
that,  "  You  may  get  assigned  to  some  dinky  little 
station  and  never  see  anything  of  the  Zone," — "  I  'm 
better  at  moving  around  than  sitting  still.  I  no- 
tice you  have  policemen  on  your  trains,  or  perhaps 
in  special  duty  languages  would  be  — " 

"  Yes,  I  was  thinking  along  that  line,  too,"  said 
"  the  Captain." 

He  rose  suddenly  from  his  chair  and  led  the  way 
into  an  adjoining  room,  busy  with  several  young 
Americans  over  desks  and  typewriters. 

"  Inspector,"  he  said,  as  a  tall  and  slender  yet 
muscular  man  of  Indian  erectness  and  noticeably 
careful  grooming  rose  to  his  feet,  "  Here  's  one  of 
those  rare  people,  an  American  who  speaks  some 
foreign  languages.  Have  a  talk  with  him.  Per- 
haps we  can  arrange  to  fix  him  up  both  for  his  good 
and  our  own." 

"Ever  done  police  duty?"  began  the  Inspector, 
when  "  the  Captain  "  had  returned  to  the  corner 
office. 

"  No." 

"  Military  ser — " 

"Nor  that  either." 


6  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

"  Well,  we  usually  require  it,"  mused  the  Inspec- 
tor slowly,  flashing  his  diamond  ring,  "  but  with 
your  special  qualifications  perhaps  — 

"  You  'd  probably  be  of  most  use  to  us  in  plain 
clothes,"  he  continued,  after  a  dozen  questions  as  to 
my  former  activities ;  "  We  could  put  you  in  uniform 
for  the  first  month  or  six  weeks  until  you  know  the 
Isthmus,  and  then  — 

"  Our  greatest  trouble  is  burglary ,**  he  broke  off 
abruptly,  rising  to  reach  a  copy  of  the  "  Canal  Zone 
Laws " ;  "  If  you  have  nothing  else  on  hand  you 
might  run  these  over ;  and  the  '  Police  Rules  and 
Regulations,'  "  he  added,  handing  me  a  small,  flat 
volume  bound  in  light  brown  imitation  leather. 

I  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair  against  the  wall  and 
fell  to  reading,  amid  the  clickity-click  of  typewriters, 
telephone  calls  even  from  far-off  Colon  on  the  At- 
lantic, and  the  constant  going  and  coming  of  a  negro 
orderly  in  shiningly  ironed  khaki  uniform.  By  and 
by  the  Inspector  drifted  into  the  main  office,  where 
his  voice  blended  for  some  time  with  that  of  "  the 
Captain."  At  length  he  came  back  bearing  a  copy 
of  the  day's  Star  and  Herald,  turned  back  to  the 
"  Estrella  de  Panama  "  pages  so  rarely  opened  in 
the  Zone. 

"  Just  run  us  off  a  translation  of  that,  if  you 
don't  mind,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  short  paragraph 
in  Spanish. 

Some  two  minutes  later  I  handed  him  the  English 


•iliiiiiiii 


The    Administration   Building   at   Ancon 


The  "Thousand  Stairs" 


version  of  the  account  of  a  near-duel  between  two 
Panamanians,  and  took  once  more  to  reading.  It 
was  more  than  an  hour  later  that  I  was  again  in- 
terrupted. 

"  You  '11  want  to  catch  the  5 :25  back  to  Corozal?  " 
inquired  the  Inspector ;  "  Mr. ,  give  him  trans- 
portation to  Culebra  and  back,  and  an  order  for  phys- 
ical examination. 

"  You  might  fill  out  this  application  blank,'*  he 
added,  handing  me  a  long  legal  sheet,  "  then  in  case 
you  are  appointed  that  much  will  be  done." 

The  document  began  with  the  usual,  "  Name , 

Birthplace ,  and  so  on."  There  followed  the  in- 
formation that  the  appointee  "  must  be  at  least  five 
feet  eight;  weigh  one  hundred  and  forty,  chest  at 
least  thirty-four  inches  — "  Then  suddenly  near  the 
bottom  of  the  back  of  the  sheet  my  eyes  caught  the 
startling  words ;  — "  Unless  you  are  sure  you  are  a 
man  of  physical  appearance  far  above  the  average 
do  not  fill  out  this  application." 

I  was  suddenly  aware  of  a  sinking  feeling  in  the 
pit  of  my  stomach;  the  blank  all  but  slipped  from 
my  nerveless  fingers.  Then  all  at  once  there  came 
back  to  me  the  words  of  some  chance  acquaintance 
of  some  far-off  time  and  place,  words  which  were  the 
only  memory  that  remained  to  me  of  the  speaker,  ex- 
cept that  he  had  lived  long  and  gathered  much  ex- 
perience, "  Bluff,  my  boy,  is  what  carries  a  man 
through  the  world.  Act  as  if  you  're  sure  you  are 


10 

and  can  and  you  '11  generally  make  the  other  fellow 
think  so."  I  sat  down  at  a  desk  and  filled  out  the 
application  in  my  most  self-confident  flourish. 

"  Go  to  Culebra  to-morrow,"  said  the  Inspector,  as 
I  bade  the  room  good-day  and  stepped  forth  with 
my  most  military  stride  and  bearing,  "  and  report 
back  here  Friday  morning." 

I  descended  to  the  world  below,  not  by  the  long 
perspective  of  stairs  that  leads  down  and  across  the 
gully  to  the  heart  of  Ancon,  but  by  a  short-cut  that 
took  me  quickly  into  a  foreign  land.  The  graveled 
highway  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  I  might  not  have 
guessed  was  an  international  boundary  had  I  not 
chanced  to  notice  the  instant  change  from  the  trim, 
screened  Zone  buildings,  each  in  its  green  lawn,  to 
the  featureless  architecture  of  a  city  where  grass 
is  all  but  unknown;  for  the  formalities  of  cross- 
ing this  frontier  are  the  same  as  those  of 
crossing  any  village  street.  It  was  my  first 
entrance  into  the  land  of  the  panamenos,  tech- 
nically known  on  the  Zone  as  "  Spigoties,"  and 
familiarly,  with  a  tinge  of  despite,  as  "  Spigs  " ;  be- 
cause the  first  Americans  to  arrive  in  the  land  found 
a  few  natives  and  cabmen  who  claimed  to  "  Speaga 
dee  Eng-leesh." 

To  Americans  direct  from  the  States  Panama 
city  ranks  still  as  rather  a  miserable  dawdling  vil- 
lage. But  that  is  due  chiefly  to  lack  of  perspec- 
tive. Against  the  background  of  Central  America 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  11 

it  seemed  almost  a  great,  certainly  a  flourishing,  city. 
Even  to-day  there  are  many  who  complain  of  its  un- 
pleasant odors;  to  those  who  have  lived  in  other 
tropical  cities  its  scent  is  like  the  perfumes  of 
Araby ;  and  none  but  those  can  in  any  degree  realize 
what  "  Tio  Sam  "  has  done  for  the  place. 

Toward  sunset  I  passed  through  a  gateway  with 
scores  of  fellow-countrymen,  all  as  composedly  at 
home  as  in  the  heart  of  their  native  land.  Across 
the  platform  stood  a  train  distinctively  American  in 
every  feature,  a  bilious-yellow  train  divided  by  the 
baggage  car  into  two  sections,  of  which  the  five 
second-class  coaches  behind  the  engine,  with  their 
wooden  benches,  were  densely  packed  in  every  avail- 
able space  with  workmen  and  laborer's  wives,  from 
Spaniards  to  ebony  negroes,  with  the  average  color 
decidedly  dark.  In  the  first-class  cars  at  the  Panama 
end  were  Americans,  all  but  exclusively  white  Amer- 
icans, with  only  here  and  there  a  "  Spigoty  "  with 
his  long  greased  hair,  his  finger  rings,  and  his 
effeminate  gestures,  and  even  a  negro  or  two.  For 
though  Uncle  Sam  may  permit  individual  states  to 
do  so,  he  may  not  himself  openly  abjure  before  the 
world  his  assertion  as  to  the  equality  of  all  men  by 
enacting  "  Jim  Crow  "  laws. 

We  were  soon  off.  Settled  back  in  the  ample  seat 
of  the  first  real  train  I  had  boarded  in  months,  with 
the  roar  of  its  length  over  the  smooth  and  solid  road- 
bed, the  deep-voiced,  masculine  whistle  instead  of  the 


12  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

painful,  puerile  screech  that  had  recently  assailed 
my  ear,  I  all  but  forgot  I  was  in  a  foreign  land. 
The  fact  was  recalled  by  the  passing  of  the  train- 
guard, —  an  erect  and  self-possessed  young  Amer- 
ican in  "  Texas "  hat,  khaki  uniform,  and  leather 
leggings,  striding  along  the  aisle  with  a  jerking, 
half-arrogant  swing  of  the  shoulders.  So,  perhaps, 
might  I  too  soon  be  parading  across  the  Isthmus! 
It  was  not,  to  be  sure,  exactly  the  role  I  had  planned 
to  play  on  the  Zone.  I  had  come  rather  with  the  hope 
of  shouldering  a  shovel  and  descending  into  the 
canal  with  other  workmen,  that  I  might  some  day 
solemnly  raise  my  right  hand  and  boast,  "  I  helped 
dig  IT."  But  that  was  in  the  callow  days  before 
I  had  arrived  and  learned  the  awful  gulf  that  sep- 
arates the  sacred  white  American  from  the  rest  of 
the  Canal  Zone  world.  Besides,  had  I  not  always 
wanted  to  be  a  policeman  and  twirl  a  club  and  stalk 
with  heavy,  law-compelling  tread  ever  since  I  had 
first  stared  speechless  upon  one  of  those  noble  beings 
on  my  first  trip  out  into  the  world  twenty-one  years 
before? 

It  was  not  without  effort  that  I  rose  in  time  next 
morning  to  continue  on  the  6 :37  from  Corozal  across 
another  bit  of  the  Zone.  Exactly  thus  should  one 
first  see  the  Great  Work,  piece-meal,  slowly;  unless 
he  will  go  home  with  it  all  in  an  undigested  lump. 
The  train  rolled  across  a  stretch  of  almost  unin- 
habited country,  with  a  vast  plain  of  broken  rock 


it:  the  ruins  of  Old  Panama 


Corozal  Police  Station 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  15 

on  the  right,  plunged  unexpectedly  through  a  short 
tunnel,  and  stopped  at  a  station  perched  on  the  edge 
of  a  ridge  above  a  small  Zone  town  backed  by  some 
vast  structure,  above  which  here  and  there  a  huge 
crane  loomed  against  the  sky  of  dawn.  Another 
mile  and  the  collectors  were  announcing  as  brazenly 
as  if  they  challenged  the  few  "  Spigs  "  on  board 
to  correct  them,  "Peter  M'Gill!  Peter  M'Gill!" 
We  were  already  moving  on  again  before  I  had 
guessed  that  by  this  noise  they  designated  none  other 
than  the  famous  Pedro  Miguel.  The  sun  rose  sud- 
denly as  we  swung  sharply  to  the  left  and  rumbled 
across  a  girderless  bridge.  Barely  had  I  time  to 
discover  that  we  were  crossing  the  great  canal  itself 
and  to  catch  a  brief  glimpse  of  the  jagged  gulf  in 
either  direction,  before  the  train  had  left  it  behind, 
as  if  the  sight  of  the  world-famous  channel  were  not 
worth  a  pause,  and  was  roaring  on  through  a  hilly 
country  of  perpetual  summer.  A  peculiarly  shaped 
reservoir  sped  past  on  the  left,  twice  or  thrice  more 
the  green  horizon  rose  and  fell,  and  at  7 :30  we  drew 
up  at  the  base  of  Culebra,  the  Zone  capital. 

On  the  screened  veranda  of  a  somewhat  sooty  and 
dismal  building  high  up  near  the  summit  of  the 
town,  another  and  I  were  pacing  anxiously  back 
and  forth  when,  well  on  in  the  morning,  an  abrupt 
and  rather  gloomy-faced  American  dashed  into  the 
building  and  one  of  the  rooms  thereof,  snapping 
over  his  shoulder  as  he  disappeared,  "  One  of  you !  " 


16  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

The  other  had  precedence.  Then  soon  from  behind 
the  wooden  shutters  came  a  growl  of  "  Next ! "  and 
two  moments  later  I  was  standing  in  the  reputed 
costume  of  Adam  on  the  scales  within.  At  about 
ten-second  intervals  a  monosyllable  fell  from  the  lips 
of  the  morose  American  as  he  delved  into  my  per- 
sonal make-up  from  crown  to  toe  with  all  the  in- 
strumental circumspection  known  to  his  secret-dis- 
covering profession.  Then  with  a  gruff  "  Dress !  " 
he  sat  down  at  a  table  to  scratch  a  few  fantastic 
marks  on  the  blank  I  had  brought,  and  hand  it  to 
me  as  I  caught  up  my  last  garment  and  turned  to 
the  door.  But,  alas  —  tight  sealed !  and  all  the  day, 
though  carrying  the  information  in  my  pocket,  I 
must  live  in  complete  ignorance  of  whether  I  had 
been  found  lacking  an  eye  or  a  lung.  For  sooner 
would  one  have  asked  his  future  of  the  scowling 
Parques  than  venture  to  invoke  a  hint  thereof  from 
that  furrow-browed  being  from  the  Land  of  Brusk- 
ness. 

Meanwhile,  as  if  it  had  been  thus  planned  to  give 
me  such  opportunity,  I  stood  at  the  very  vortex  of 
canal  interest  and  fame,  with  nearly  an  entire  day 
before  the  evening  train  should  carry  me  back  to 
Corozal.  I  descended  to  the  "  observation  plat- 
form." Here  at  last  at  my  very  feet  was  the  famous 
"  cut  "  known  to  the  world  by  the  name  of  Culebra ; 
a  mighty  channel  a  furlong  wide  plunging  sheer 
through  "  Snake  Mountain,"  that  rocky  range  of 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  17 

scrub-wooded  hills ;  severing  the  continental  divide. 
At  first  view  the  scene  was  bewildering.  Only  grad- 
ually did  the  eye  gather  details  out  of  the  mass. 
Before  and  beyond  were  pounding  rock  drills,  belch- 
ing locomotives,  there  arose  the  rattle  and  bump  of 
long  trains  of  flat-cars  on  many  tracks,  the  crash 
of  falling  boulders,  the  snort  of  the  straining  steam- 
shovels  heaping  the  cars  high  with  earth  and  rock, 
everywhere  were  groups  of  little  men,  some  working 
leisurely,  some  scrambling  down  into  the  rocky  bed 
of  the  canal  or  dodging  the  clanging  trains,  all  far 
below  and  stretching  endless  in  either  direction, 
while  over  all  the  scene  hovered  a  veritable  Pittsburg 
of  smoke. 

All  long-heralded  sights  —  such  is  the  nature  of 
the  world  and  man  —  are  at  first  glimpse  disappoint- 
ing. To  this  rule  the  great  Culebra  "  cut  "  was  no 
exception.  After  all  this  was  merely  a  hill,  a  mod- 
erate ridge,  this  backbone  of  the  Isthmus  the  sunder- 
ing of  which  had  sent  its  echoes  to  all  corners  of  the 
earth.  The  long-fed  imagination  had  led  one  to 
picture  a  towering  mountain,  a  very  Andes. 

But  as  I  looked  longer,  noting  how  little  by  com- 
parison were  the  trains  I  knew  to  be  of  regulation 
U.  S.  size,  how  literally  tiny  were  the  scores  upon 
scores  of  men  far  down  below  who  were  doing  this 
thing,  its  significance  regained  bit  by  bit  its  proper 
proportions.  Train  after  train-load  of  the  spoil 
of  the  "  cut  "  ground  away  towards  the  Pacific ;  and 


18  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

here  man  had  been  digging  steadily,  if  not  always 
earnestly,  since  a  year  before  I  was  born.  The 
gigantic  scene  recalled  to  the  mind  the  "  industrial 
army  "  of  which  Carlyle  was  prone  to  preach,  with 
the  same  discipline  and  organization  as  an  army  in 
the  field;  and  every  now  and  then,  to  bear  out  the 
figure,  there  burst  forth  the  mighty  cannonade,  not 
of  war,  but  of  peace  and  progress  in  the  form  of 
earth-upheaving  and  house-rocking  blasts  of  dyna- 
mite, tearing  away  the  solid  rock  below  at  the  very 
feet  of  the  town. 

I  took  to  the  railroad  and  struck  on  further  into 
the  unknown  country.  Almost  before  I  was  well 
started  I  found  myself  in  another  town,  yet  larger 
than  Culebra  and  with  the  name  "  Empire  "  in  the 
station  building;  and  nearly  every  rod  of  the  way 
between  had  been  lined  with  villages  of  negroes  and 
all  breeds  and  colors  of  canal  workers.  So  on  again 
along  a  broad  macadamized  highway  that  bent  and 
rose  through  low  bushy  ridges,  past  an  army  en- 
camped in  wood  and  tin  barracks  on  a  hillside,  with 
khaki  uniformed  soldiers  ahorse  and  afoot  enlivening 
all  the  roadway  and  the  neighboring  fields.  Never 
a  mile  without  its  town  —  how  different  will  all  this 
be  when  the  canal  is  finished  and  all  this  community 
is  gone  to  Alaska  or  has  scattered  itself  again  over 
the  face  of  the  earth,  and  dense  tropical  solitude 
has  settled  down  once  more  over  the  scene. 

Panama,    they    had    said,    is    insupportably    hot. 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  19 

Comparing  it  with  other  lands  I  knew  I  could  not  but 
smile  at  the  notion.  Again  it  was  the  lack  of  per- 
spective. Sweat  ran  easily,  yet  so  fresh  the  air 
and  so  refreshing  the  breeze  sweeping  incessantly 
across  from  the  Atlantic  that  even  the  sweating  was 
almost  enjoyable.  Hot!  Yes,  like  June  on  the 
Canadian  border  —  though  not  like  July.  It  is  hot 
in  St.  Louis  on  an  August  Sunday,  with  all  the 
refreshment  doors  tight  closed  —  to  strangers ;  hot 
in  the  cottonfields  of  Texas,  but  with  these  plu- 
tonic  corners  the  heat  of  the  Zone  shows  little 
rivalry. 

The  way  led  round  a  cone-shaped  hill  crowned  by 
another  military  camp  with  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
flapping  far  above,  until  I  came  at  last  in  sight  of 
the  renowned  Chagres,  seven  miles  above  Culebra,  to 
all  appearances  a  meek  and  harmless  little  stream 
spanned  by  a  huge  new  iron  bridge  and  forbidden 
to  come  and  play  in  the  unfinished  canal  by  a  little 
dam  of  earth  that  a  steam-shovel  will  some  day  eat  up 
in  a  few  hours.  Here,  where  it  ends  and  the  flat 
country  begins,  I  descended  into  the  "  cut,"  dry  and 
waterless,  with  a  stone-quarry  bottom.  A  sharp 
climb  out  on  the  opposite  side  and  I  plunged  into 
rampant  jungle,  half  expecting  snake-bites  on  my 
exposed  ankles  —  another  pre-conceived  notion  — 
and  at  length  falling  into  a  narrow  jungle  trail  that 
pitched  down  through  a  dense-grown  gully,  came 
upon  a  fenced  compound  with  several  Zone  buildings 


20  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

on  the  banks  of  the  Chagres,  down  to  which  sloped 
a  broad  green  lawn. 

Here  dwells  hale  and  ruddy  "  Old  Fritz,"  for  long 
years  keeper  of  the  fluviograph  that  measures  and 
gives  warning  of  the  rampages  of  the  Chagres. 
Fritz  will  talk  to  you  in  almost  any  tongue  you  may 
choose,  as  he  can  tell  you  of  adventures  in  almost  any 
land,  all  with  a  captivating  accent  and  ?  the  vocabu- 
lary of  a  man  who  has  lived  long  amc  men  and  na- 
ture. Nor  are  Fritz'  opinions  those  gleaned  from 
other  men  or  the  printed  page.  So  we  fell  to  fan- 
ning ourselves  this  January  afternoon  on  the 
screened  and  shaded  veranda  above  the  Chagres,  and 
"  Old  Fritz,"  lighting  his  pipe,  raised  his  slippered 
feet  to  the  screen  railing  and,  tossing  away  the 
charred  remnant  of  a  match,  began:  — 

"  Vidout  var  dere  iss  no  brogress.  Ven  all  der 
vorld  iss  at  peace,  all  der  vorld  goes  to  shleep." 

•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

Police  headquarters  looked  all  but  deserted  on 
Friday  morning.  There  had  been  "  something 
doing  "  in  Zone  criminal  annals  the  night  before,  and 
not  only  "  the  Captain  "  but  both  "  the  Chief  "  and 
the  Inspector  were  "  somewhere  out  along  the  line." 
I  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair  against  the  wall.  A 
half -hour,  perhaps,  had  I  read  when  "  Eddie  " —  I  am 
not  entitled,  perhaps,  to  such  familiarity,  but  the 
solemn  title  of  "  chief  clerk "  is  far  too  stiff  and 
formal  for  that  soul  of  good-heartedness  striving 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  21 

in  vain  to  Tilde  behind  a  bluff  exterior  — "  Eddie," 
I  say,  blew  a  last  cloud  of  smoke  from  his  lungs  to 
the  ceiling,  tossed  aside  the  butt  of  his  cigarette,  and 
motioned  to  me  to  take  the  chair  beside  his  desk. 

"  It  's  all  off ! "  said  a  voice  within  me.  For  the 
expression  on  "  Eddie's  "  face  was  that  of  a  man 
with  an  unpleasant  duty  to  perform,  and  his  open- 
ing words  w-ffic  in  exactly  that  tone  of  voice  in  which 
a  man  begii  t^rf*  I  am  sorry,  but  — "  Had  I  not 
often  used  it  myself? 

"  The  Captain,"  is  how  he  really  did  begin, 
"  called  me  up  from  Colon  last  night,  and  — " 

"  Here's  where  I  get  my  case  nol  pressed,"  I  found 
myself  whispering.  In  all  probability  that  sealed 
document  I  had  sent  in  the  day  before  announced  me 
as  a  physical  wreck. 

" —  and  told  me,"  continued  "  Eddie  "  in  his  sad, 
regretful  tone,  "  to  tell  you  we  will  take  you  on  the 
force  as  a  first-class  policeman.  It  happens,  how- 
ever, that  the  department  of  Civil  Administration  is 
about  to  begin  a  census  of  the  Zone,  and  they  are 
looking  for  any  men  that  can  speak  Spanish.  If  we 
take  you  on,  therefore,  the  Captain  would  assign  you 
to  the  census  department  until  that  work  is  done  — 
it  will  probably  take  something  over  a  month  —  and 
then  you  would  be  returned  to  regular  police  duty. 
The  Chief  says  he  'd  rather  have  you  learn  the 
Isthmus  on  census  than  on  police  pay. 

"  Or,"  went  on  "  Eddie,"  just  as  I  was  about  to 


22  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

break  in  with,  "  All  right,  that  suits  me," —  "  or,  if 
you  prefer,  the  census  department  will  enroll  you 
as  a  regular  enumerator  and  we  '11  take  you  on  the 
force  as  soon  as  that  job  is  over.  The  —  er  —  Pay>" 
added  "  Eddie,"  reaching  for  a  cigarette  but  chang- 
ing his  mind,  "  of  enumerators  will  be  five  dollars  a 
day,  and  —  er  —  five  a  day  beats  eighty  a  month 
by  more  than  a  nose." 

We  descended  a  story  and  I  was  soon  in  confer- 
ence with  a  slender,  sharp-faced  young  man  of  mobile 
features  and  penetrating  eyes  behind  which  a  smile 
seemed  always  to  be  lurking.  On  the  Canal  Zone, 
as  in  British  colonies,  one  is  frequently  struck  by  the 
youthfulness  of  men  in  positions  of  importance. 

"  I  '11  probably  assign  you  to  Empire  district,"  the 
slender  young  man  was  saying,  "  there  's  everything 
up  there  and  almost  any  language  will  sure  be  some 
help  to  us.  This  time  we  are  taking  a  thorough, 
complete  census  of  all  the  Zone  clear  back  to  the 
Zone  line.  Here 's  a  sample  card  and  list  of  in- 
structions." 

In  other  words  kind  Uncle  Sam  was  about  to  give 
me  authority  to  enter  every  dwelling  in  the  most 
cosmopolitan  and  thickly  populated  district  of  his 
Canal  Zone,  and  to  put  questions  to  every  dweller 
therein,  note-book  and  pencil  in  hand;  authority  to 
ramble  around  a  month  or  more  in  sunshine  and 
jungle  —  and  pay  me  for  the  privilege.  There  are 
really  two  methods  oi'  seehlg*  LliL  Ci*nul  Zone;  as  an 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  23 

employee  or  as  a  guest  at  the  Tivoli,  both  of  them 
at  about  five  dollars  a  day  —  but  at  opposite  ends 
of  the  thermometer. 

There  remained  a  week-end  between  that  Friday 
morning  and  the  last  day  of  January,  set  for  the 
beginning  of  the  census.  Certainly  I  should  not 
regret  the  arrival  of  the  day  when  I  should  become 
an  employee,  with  all  the  privileges  and  coupon- 
books  thereunto  appertained.  For  the  Zone  is  no 
easy  dwelling-place  for  the  non-employee.  Our 
worthy  Uncle  of  the  chin  whiskers  makes  it  quite 
plain  that,  while  he  may  tolerate  the  mere  visitor,  he 
does  not  care  to  have  him  hanging  around ;  makes  it 
so  plain,  in  fact,  that  a  few  weeks  purely  of  sight- 
seeing on  the  Zone  implies  an  adamantine  financial 
backing.  In  his  screened  and  full-provided  towns, 
where  the  employee  lives  in  such  well-furnished  com- 
fort, the  tourist  might  beat  his  knuckles  bare  and, 
shake  yellow  gold  in  the  other  hand,  and  be  coldly 
refused  even  a  lodging  for  the  night;  and  while  he 
may  eat  a  meal  in  the  employees'  hotels  —  at  near 
twice  the  employee's  price  —  the  very  attitude  in 
which  he  is  received  says  openly  that  he  is  admitted 
only  on  suffrance  —  permitted  to  eat  only  because 
if  he  starved  to  death  our  Uncle  would  have  the 
bother  of  burying  him  and  his  Zone  Police  the  ar- 
duous toil  of  making  out  an  accident  report. 

Meanwhile  I  must  change  my  dwelling-place.  For 
the  quartermaster  of  Corozal  had  need  of  all  the 


24  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

rooms  within  his  domain,  need  so  imperative  that 
seventeen  bona  fide  and  wrathy  employees  were  even 
then  bunking  in  the  pool-room  of  Corozal  hotel. 
Work  on  the  Zone  was  moving  steadily  Pacificward 
and  the  accommodations  refused  to  come  with  it  —  at 
least  at  the  same  degree  of  speed. 

Nor  was  I  especially  averse  to  the  transfer.  The 
room-mate  with  whom  fate  had  cast  me  in  House  81 
was  a  pleasant  enough  fellow,  a  youth  of  unobjec- 
tionable personal  manners  even  though  his  "  eight- 
hour  graft  "  was  in  the  sooty  seat  of  a  steam-crane 
high  above  Miraflores  locks.  But  he  had  one  slight 
idiosyncrasy  that  might  in  time  have  grown  annoy- 
ing. On  the  night  of  our  first  acquaintance,  after 
we  had  lain  exchanging  random  experiences  till  the 
evening  heat  had  begun  a  retreat  before  the  gentle 
night  breeze,  I  was  awakened  from  the  first  doze  by 
my  companion  sitting  suddenly  up  in  his  cot  across 
the  room. 

"  Say,  I  hope  you  're  not  nervous?  "  he  remarked. 

"  Not  immoderately." 

"  One  of  my  stunts  is  night-mare,"  he  went  on, 
rising  to  switch  on  the  electric  light,  "  and  when  I 
get  'em  I  generally  imagine  my  room-mate  is  a  bur- 
glar trying  to  go  through  my  junk  and  — " 

He  reached  Under  his  pillow  and  brought  to  light 
a  "  Colt's  "  of  45  caliber ;  then  crossing  the  room  he 
pointed  to  three  large  irregular  splintered  holes  in 
the  wall  some  three  or  four  inches  above  me,  and 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  25 

which  I  hod  not  already  seen  simply  because  I  had 
not  chanced  to  look  that  way. 

"  There  's  the  last  three.  But  I  'm  tryin'  to  break 
myself  of  'em,"  he  concluded,  slipping  the  revolver 
back  under  his  pillow  and  turning  off  the  light  again. 

Which  is  among  the  various  reasons  why  it  was 
without  protest  that,  with  "  the  Captain's "  tele- 
phoned consent  on  the  ground  that  I  was  now 
virtually  on  the  force,  I  took  up  my  residence  in 
Corozal  police  station.  'T  is  a  peaceful  little  build- 
ing of  the  usual  Zone  type  on  a  breezy  knoll  across 
the  railroad,  with  a  spreading  tree  and  a  little  well- 
tended  flower  plot  before  it,  and  the  broad  world 
stretching  away  in  all  directions  behind.  Here 

lived  Policeman  T and  B .  "  First-class 

policemen  "  perhaps  I  should  take  care  to  specify, 
for  in  Zone  parlance  the  unqualified  noun  implies 
African  ancestry.  But  it  seems  easier  to  use  an  ad- 
jective of  color  when  necessary.  Among  their  regu- 
lar duties  was  that  of  weighing  down  the  rocking- 
chairs  on  the  airy  front  veranda,  whence  each  nook 
and  cranny  of  Corozal  was  in  sight,  and  of  strolling 
across  to  greet  the  train-guard  of  the  seven  daily 
passengers;  though  the  irregular  ones  that  might 
burst  upon  them  at  any  moment  were  not  unlikely  to 

resemble  a  Moro  expedition  in  the  Philippines.  B 

and  I  shared  the  big  main  room;  for  T ,  being 

the  haughty  station  commander,  occupied  the  parlor 
suite  beside  the  office.  That  was  all,  except  the 


26  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

black  Trinidadian  boy  who  sat  on  the  wooden  shelf 
that  was  his  bed  behind  a  huge  padlocked  door  and 
gazed  dreamily  out  through  the  bars  —  when  he 
was  not  carrying  a  bundle  to  the  train  for  his  wardens 
or  engaged  in  the  janitor  duties  that  kept  Corozal 
station  so  spick  and  span.  Oh!  To  be  sure  there 
were  also  a  couple  of  negro  policemen  in  the  smaller 
room  behind  the  thin  wooden  partition  of  our  own, 
but  negro  policemen  scarcely  count  in  Zone  Police 
reckonings. 

"  By  Heck !  They  must  use  a  lot  o'  mules  t*  haul 
aout  all  thet  dirt,"  observed  an  Arkansas  farmer  to 
his  nephew,  home  from  the  Zone  on  vacation.  He 
would  have  thought  so  indeed  could  he  have  spent 
a  day  at  Corozal  and  watched  the  unbroken  deafen- 
ing procession  of  dirt-trains  scream  by  on  their  way 
to  the  Pacific, —  straining  Moguls  dragging  a  fur- 
long of  "  Lidgerwood  flats,"  swaying  "  Oliver 
dumps "  with  their  side  chains  clanking,  a  succes- 
sion as  incessant  of  "  empties  "  grinding  back  again 
into  the  midst  of  the  fray.  On  the  tail  of  every 
train  lounged  an  American  conductor,  dressed  more 
like  a  miner,  though  his  "  front  "  and  "  hind  "  negro 
brakemen  were  as  apt  to  be  in  silk  ties  and  patent- 
leathers.  To  say  nothing  of  the  train-loads  that  go 
Atlanticward  and  to  jungle  "  dumps  "  and  to  many 
an  unnoticed  "  fill."  Then  when  he  had  thus 
watched  the  day  through  it  would  have  been  of  in- 
terest to  go  and  chat  with  some  of  the  "  Old  Timers  " 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  27 

who  live  here  beside  the  track  and  who  have  seen, 
or  at  least  heard,  this  same  endless  stream  of  rock 
and  earth  race  by  six  days  a  week,  fifty-two  weeks 
a  year  for  six  years,  as  constant  and  heavily-laden 
to-day  as  in  the  beginning.  He  might  discover,  as 
not  all  his  fellow-countrymen  have  as  yet,  that  the 
little  surgical  operation  on  Mother  Earth  we  are 
engaged  in  is  no  mule  job. 

The  week-end  gave  me  time  to  get  back  in  touch 
with  affairs  in  the  States  among  the  newspaper  files 
at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  building.  Uncle  Sam  surely 
makes  life  comfortable  for  his  children  wherever  he 
takes  hold.  It  is  not  enough  that  he  shall  clean  up 
and  set  in  order  these  tropical  pest-holes ;  he  will  have 
the  employee  fancy  himself  completely  at  home.  Here 
I  sat  in  one  of  the  dozen  big  airy  recreation  halls, 
well  stocked  with  man's  playthings,  which  the  govern- 
ment has  erected  on  the  Zone ;  I,  who  two  weeks  be- 
fore had  been  thankful  for  lodging  on  the  earth  floor 
of  a  Honduranean  hut.  The  Y.  M.  C.  A.  is  the  chief 
social  center  on  the  Isthmus,  the  rendezvous  and 
leisure-hour  headquarters  of  the  thousands  that  in- 
habit bachelor  quarters  —  except  the  few  of  the 
purely  barroom  type.  "  Everybody's  Association  " 
it  might  perhaps  more  properly  be  called,  for  ladies 
find  welcome  and  the  laughter  of  children  over  the 
parlor  games  is  rarely  lacking.  It  is  not  the  circum- 
spect place  that  are  many  of  its  type  in  the  States, 
but  a  real  man's  place  where  he  can  buy  his  ciga- 


28  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

rettes  and  smoke  his  pipe  in  peace,  a  place  for  men 
as  men  are,  not  as  the  fashion  plates  that  mama's 
fond  imagination  pictures  them.  With  all  its  ex- 
cellences it  would  be  unjust  to  complain  that  the 
Zone  "  Y.  M."  is  a  trifle  "  low-brow  "  in  its  tastes, 
that  the  books  on  its  shelves  are  apt  to  be  "  popular  " 
novels  rather  than  reading  matter,  that  its  phono- 
graphs are  most  frequently  screeching  vaudeville 
noises  while  the  Slezak  and  Homer  disks  lie  tucked 
away  far  down  near  the  bottom  of  the  stack. 

With  the  new  week  I  moved  to  Empire,  the  "  Rules 
and  Regulations  "  in  a  pocket  and  the  most  indis- 
pensable of  my  possessions  under  an  arm.  Once 
more  we  rumbled  through  Miraflores  tunnel  through 
a  mole-hill,  past  her  concrete  light-house  among  the 
astonished  palms,  and  her  giant  hose  of  water  wiping 
away  the  rock  hills,  across  the  trestleless  bridge 
with  its  photographic  glimpse  of  the  canal  before 
and  behind  for  the  limber-necked,  and  again  I  found 
myself  in  the  metropolis  of  the  Canal  Zone.  At  the 
quartermaster's  office  my  "  application  for  quarters  " 
was  duly  filed  without  a  word  and  a  slip  assigning 
me  to  Room  3,  House  47,  as  silently  returned.  I 
climbed  by  a  stone-faced  U.  S.  road  to  my  new  home 
on  the  slope  of  a  ridge  overlooking  the  railway  and 
its  buildings  below. 

It  was  the  noon-hour.  My  two  room-mates,  there- 
fore, were  on  hand  for  inspection,  sprawlingly  en- 
grossed in  a  —  quite  innocent  and  legal  —  card 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  29 

game  on  a  table  littered  with  tobacco,  pipes,  matches, 
dog-eared  wads  of  every  species  of  literature  from 
real  estate  pamphlets  to  locomotive  journals,  and  a 
further  mass  of  indiscriminate  matter  that  none  but 
a  professional  inventory  man  would  attempt  to 
classify.  About  the  room  was  the  usual  clutter  of 
all  manner  of  things  in  the  usual  unarranged,  "  un- 
womaned  "  Zone  way,  which  the  negro  janitor  feels 
it  neither  his  duty  nor  privilege  to  bring  to  order; 
while  on  and  about  my  cot  and  bureau  were  helter- 
skeltered  the  sundry  possessions  of  an  absent  em- 
ployee, who  had  left  for  his  six-weeks'  vacation  with- 
out hanging  up  his  shirt  —  after  the  fashion  of 
"  Zoners."  So  when  I  had  wiped  away  the  dust 
that  had  been  gathering  thereon  since  the  days  of 
de  Lesseps  and  chucked  my  odds  and  ends  into  a 
bureau  drawer,  I  was  settled, —  a  full-fledged  Zone 
employee  in  the  quarters  to  which  every  man  on  the 
"  gold  roll "  is  entitled  free  of  charge. 

Just  here  it  may  be  well  to  explain  that  the  I.  C. 
C.  has  very  dexterously  dodged  the  necessity  of  lin- 
ing the  Zone  with  the  offensive  signs  "  Black  "  and 
"  White."  'T  would  not  be  exactly  the  distinction 
desired  anyway.  Hence  the  line  has  been  drawn  be- 
tween "  Gold  "  and  "  Silver  "  employees.  The  first 
division,  paid  in  gold  coin,  is  made  up,  with  a  few 
exceptions,  of  white  American  citizens.  To  the 
second  belong  any  of  the  darker  shade,  and  all  com- 
mon laborers  of  whatever  color,  these  receiving  their 


30  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

wages  in  Panamanian  silver.  'T  is  a  deep  and  sharp- 
drawn  line.  The  story  runs  that  Liza  Lawsome,  not 
long  arrived  from  Jamaica,  entering  the  office  of  a 
Zone  dentist,  paused  suddenly  before  the  announce- 
ment: 

Crownwork.     Gold  and  Silver  Fillings. 
Extractions  wholly  without  Pain. 

There  was  deep  disappointment  in  face  and  voice  as 
she  sat  down  with  a  flounce  of  her  starched  and  snow- 
white  skirt,  gasping: 

"  Oh,  Doctah,  does  I  have  to  have  silver  fillings  ?  " 
My  room-mates,  "  Mitch "  and  "  Tom,"  sat  re- 
spectively at  the  throttle  of  a  locomotive  that  jerked 
dirt-trains  out  of  the  "  cut "  and  straddled  a  steam- 
shovel  that  ate  its  way  into  Culebra  range.  Whence, 
of  course,  they  were  covered  with  the  grease  and 
grime  incident  to  those  occupations.  Which  did  not 
make  them  any  the  less  companionable  —  though  it 
did  promise  a  distinct  increase  in  my  laundry  bill. 
When  they  had  descended  again  to  the  labor-train 
and  been  snatched  away  to  their  appointed  tasks, 
I  sat  a  short  hour  in  one  of  the  black  "  Mission  " 
rocking-chairs  on  the  screened  veranda  puzzling  over 
a  serious  problem.  The  quarters  of  the  "  gold  "  em- 
ployee is  as  completely  furnished  as  any  reasonable 
man  could  demand,  his  iron  cot  with  springs  and 
mattress  unimpeachable  —  but  just  there  the  ma- 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  31 

ternal  generosity  of  the  government  ceases.  He 
must  furnish  his  own  sheets  and  pillow  —  must  be- 
cause placards  on  the  wall  sternly  warn  him  not  to 
sleep  on  the  bare  mattress ;  and  the  New  York  Sun- 
day edition  that  had  served  me  thus  far  I  had  care- 
lessly left  behind  at  Corozal  police  station.  To  be 
sure  there  were  sheets  for  sale  in  Empire,  at  the 
Commissary  —  where  money  has  the  purchasing- 
power  of  cobble-stones,  and  coupon-books  come  only 
to  those  who  have  worked  a  day  or  more  on  the 
Zone.  Then  the  Jamaican  janitor,  drifting  in  to 
potter  about  the  room,  evidently  guessed  the  cause 
of  my  perplexity,  for  he  turned  to  point  to  the  bed 
of  the  absent  "  Mitch  "  and  gurgled : 

"  Jes'  you  make  lub  to  dat  man  what  got  dat 
bed.  Him  got  plenty  ob  sheets."  Which  proved  a 
wise  suggestion. 

Empire  hotel  sat  a  bit  down  the  hill.  There  the 
"  gold "  ranks  were  again  subdivided.  The  coat- 
less  ate  and  sweltered  inside  the  great  dining-room ; 
the  formal  sat  in  haughty  state  in  what  was  virtually 
a  second-story  veranda  overlooking  the  railroad 
yards  and  a  part  of  the  town,  where  were  tables  of 
four,  electric  fans,  and  "  Ben  "  to  serve  with  butler 
formality.  I  found  it  worth  while  to  climb  the  hill 
for  my  coat  thrice  a  day.  As  yet  I  was  jangling 
down  a  Panamanian  dollar  at  each  appearance,  but 
the  day  was  not  far  distant  when  I  should  receive 
the  "  recruits "  hotel-book  and  soon  grow  as  ac- 


32  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

customed  as  the  rest  to  having  a  coupon  snatched 
from  it  by  the  yellow  negro  at  the  door.  Uncle  Sam's 
boarding  scale  on  the  Zone  is  widely  varied.  Three 
meals  cost  the  non-employee  $1.50,  the  "  gold  "  em- 
ployee $.90,  the  white  European  laborer  $.40,  and 
negroes  in  general  $.30. 

That  afternoon,  when  the  sun  had  begun  to  bow 
its  head  on  the  thither  side  of  the  canal,  I  climbed  to 
the  newly  labeled  census  office  on  the  knoll  behind  the 
police  station,  from  the  piazza  of  which  all  native 
Empire  lies  within  sweep  of  the  eye.  "  The  boss," 
a  smiling  youth  only  well  started  on  his  third  de- 
cade, whose  regular  duties  were  in  the  sanitary  de- 
partment, had  already  moved  bed,  bag,  and  baggage 
into  the  room  that  had  been  assigned  the  census,  that 
he  might  be  "  always  on  the  job." 

Not  till  eight  that  evening,  however,  did  the  force 
gather  to  look  itself  over.  There  was  the  com- 
mander-in-chief  of  the  census  bureau,  sent  down  from 
Washington  specifically  for  the  task  in  hand,  under 
whom  as  chairmen  we  settled  down  into  a  sort  of 
director's  meeting,  a  wholly  informal,  coatless,  ciga- 
rette-srnoking  meeting  in  which  even  the  chief  himself 
did  not  feel  it  necessary  to  let  his  dignity  weigh  upon 
him.  He  had  been  sent  down  alone.  Hence  there 
had  been  great  scrambling  to  gather  together  on  the 
Zone  men  enough  who  spoke  Spanish  —  and  with  no 
striking  success.  Most  noticeable  of  my  fellow- 
enumerators,  being  in  uniform,  were  three  Marines 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  33 

from  Bas  Obispo,  fluent  with  the  working  Spanish 
they  had  picked  up  from  Mindanao  to  Puerto  Rico, 
and  flush-cheeked  with  the  prospect  of  a  full  month 
on  "  pass,"  to  say  nothing  of  the  $4.40  a  day  that 
would  be  added  to  their  daily  military  income  of 
$.60.  Then  there  were  four  of  darker  hue, —  Pan- 
amanians and  West  Indians ;  and  how  rare  are  Span- 
ish-speaking Americans  on  the  Zone  was  proved  by 
the  admittance  of  such  complexions  to  the  "  gold  " 
roll. 

Of  native  U.  S.  civilians  there  were  but  two 
of  us.  Of  whom  Barter,  speaking  only  his  nasal 
New  Jersey,  must  perforce  be  assigned  to  the 
"  gold "  quarters,  leaving  me  the  native  town  of 
Empire.  At  which  we  were  both  satisfied,  Barter 
because  he  did  not  like  to  sully  himself  by  contact 
with  foreigners,  I  because  one  need  not  travel  clear 
to  the  Canal  Zone  to  study  the  ways  of  Americans. 
As  for  the  other  seven,  each  was  assigned  his  strip 
of  land  something  over  a  mile  wide  and  five  long 
running  back  to  the  western  boundary  of  the  Zone. 
That  region  of  wilderness  known  as  "  Beyond  the 
Canal  "  was  to  be  left  for  special  treatment  later. 
The  Zone  had  been  divided  for  census  purposes  into 
four  sections,  with  headquarters  and  supervisor  in 
Ancon,  Empire,  Gorgona,  and  Cristobal  respectively. 
Our  district,  stretching  from  the  trestleless  bridge 
over  the  canal  to  a  great  tree  near  Bas  Obispo,  was 
easily  the  fat  of  the  land,  the  most  populous,  most 


34  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

cosmopolitan,    and   embracing   within   its    limits    the 
greatest  task  on  the  Zone. 

Meanwhile  we  had  fallen  to  studying  the  "  In- 
structions to  Enumerators,"  the  very  first  article  of 
which  was  such  as  to  give  pause  and  reflection; 

"  When  you  have  once  signed  on  as  an  enumerator 
you  cannot  cease  to  exercise  your  functions  as  such 
without  justifiable  cause  under  penalty  of  $500  fine." 
Which  warning  was  quickly  followed  by  the  hair- 
raising  announcement: 

"  If  you  set  down  the  name  of  a  fictitious  person  " 
—  what  can  have  given  the  good  census  department 
the  notion  of  such  a  possibility? — "you  will  be 
fined  $2,000  or  sentenced  to  five  years'  imprisonment, 
or  both." 

From  there  on  the  injunctions  grew  less  nerve- 
racking  :  "  You  must  use  a  medium  soft  black  pencil 
(which  will  be  furnished)" — law-breaking  under 
such  conditions  would  be  absurdity  —  "  use  no  ditto 
marks  and  " —  here  I  could  not  but  shudder  as  there 
passed  before  my  eyes  memories  of  college  lecture 
rooms  and  all  the  strange  marks  that  have  come  to 
mean  something  to  me  alone  — "  take  pains  to  write 
legibly ! " 

Then  we  arose  and  swarmed  upstairs  to  an  empty 

court-room,  where  Judge  G ,  throwing  away  his 

cigarette  and  removing  his  Iowa  feet  from  the  bar 
of  justice,  caused  us  each  to  raise  a  right  hand  and 
swear  an  oath  as  solemn  as  ever  president  on  March 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  35 

fourth.  An  oath,  I  repeat,  not  merely  to  uphold 
and  defend  the  constitution  against  all  enemies, 
armed  or  armless,  but  furthermore  "  not  to  share 
with  any  one  any  of  the  information  you  gather  as 
an  enumerator,  or  show  a  census  card,  or  keep  a 
copy  of  same."  Yet,  I  trust  I  can  spin  this  simple 
yarn  of  my  Canal  Zone  days  without  offense  to  Uncle 
Sam  against  the  day  when  mayhap  I  shall  have  oc- 
casion to  apply  to  him  again  for  occupation.  For 
that  reason  I  shall  take  abundant  care  to  give  no 
information  whatsoever  in  the  following  pages. 


CHAPTER  II 

HE  boss "  and  I  initiated  the  Canal  Zone 
Census  that  very  night.  Legally  it  was  to  be- 
gin with  the  dawning  of  February,  but  there  were 
many  labor  camps  in  our  district  and  the  hours  bor- 
dering on  midnight  the  only  sure  time  to  "  catch 
'em  in."  Up  in  House  47  I  gathered  together  the 
legion  paraphernalia  of  this  new  occupation, —  some 
two  hundred  red  cards  a  foot  long  and  half  as  wide, 
a  surveyor's  field  notebook  for  the  preservation  of 
miscellaneous  information,  tags  for  the  tagging  of 
canvassed  buildings,  tacks  for  the  tacking  of  the 
same,  the  necessary  tack-hammer,  the  medium  soft 
black  pencil,  above  all  the  awesome  legal  "  Commis- 
sion," impressively  signed  and  sealed,  wherein  none 
other  than  our  weighty  nation's  chief  himself  did 
expressly  authorize  me  to  search  out,  enter,  and 
question  ad  libitum.  All  this  swung  over  a  shoulder 
in  a  white  canvas  sack,  that  carried  memory  back 
through  the  long  years  to  my  newsboy  days,  I  de- 
scended to  the  town. 

"  The  boss "  was  ready.  It  was  nearly  eleven 
when  we  crossed  the  silent  P.  R.  R.  tracks  and, 
plunging  away  into  the  night  past  great  heaps  of 

M 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  37 

abandoned  locomotives  huddled  dim  and  uncertain  in 
the  thin  moonlight  like  ghosts  of  the  French  fiasco, 
dashed  into  a  camp  of  the  laborer's  village  of 
Cunette,  pitched  on  the  very  edge  of  the  now  black 
and  silent  void  of  the  canal.  Eighteen  thick-necked 
negroes  in  undershirts  and  trousers  gazed  up  white- 
eyed  from  a  suspended  card  game  at  the  long  camp 
table.  But  we  had  no  time  for  explanations. 

"  Name  ?  "  I  shouted  at  the  coal-hued  Hercules 
nearest  at  hand. 

"  David  Providence,"  he  bleated  in  trembling 
voice,  and  the  great  Zone  questionnaire  was  on. 

We  had  enrolled  the  group  before  a  son  of  wis- 
dom among  them  surmised  that  we  were  not,  after 
all,  plain-clothes  men  in  quest  of  criminals ;  and  his 
announcement  brought  visible  relief.  Twice  as  many 
blaclcs  were  sprawled  in  the  two  rows  of  double-sided, 
three-story  bunks, —  mere  strips  of  canvas  on  gas- 
pipes  that  could  be  hung  up  like  swinging  shelves 
when  not  in  use.  Mere  noise  did  not  even  disturb 
their  dreams.  We  roused  them  by  pencil- jabs  in  the 
ribs,  and  they  started  up  with  savage,  animal-like 
grunts  and  murderous  glares  which  instantly  sub- 
sided to  sheepish  grins  and  voiceless  astonishment 
at  sight  of  a  white  face  bending  over  them.  Now 
and  again  open-mouthed  guffaws  of  laughter  greeted 
the  mumbled  admission  of  some  powerful  buck  that  he 
could  not  read,  or  did  not  know  his  age.  But  there 
was  nothing  even  faintly  resembling  insolence,  for 


38  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

these  were  all  British  West  Indians  without  a  cor- 
rupting "  States  nigger "  among  them.  A  half- 
hour  after  our  arrival  we  had  tagged  the  barracks 
and  dived  into  the  next  camp,  blacker  and  sleepier 
and  more  populous  than  the  first.  It  was  February 
morning  before  I  climbed  the  steps  of  silent  47  and 
stepped  under  the  shower-bath  that  is  always  pre- 
liminary, on  the  Zone,  to  a  night's  repose. 

A  dream  of  earthquake,  holocaust,  and  general  de- 
struction developed  gradually  into  full  conscious- 
ness at  four-thirty.  House  47  was  in  riotous  up- 
roar. No,  neither  conflagration  nor  foreign  inva- 
sion was  pending;  it  was  merely  the  houseful  of  en- 
gineers in  their  customary  daily  struggle  to  catch 
the  labor-train  and  be  away  to  work  by  daylight. 
When  the  hour's  rampage  had  subsided  I  rose  to 
switch  off  the  light  and  turned  in  again. 

The  rays  of  the  impetuous  Panama  sun  were 
spattering  from  them  when  I  passed  again  the 
jumbled  rows  of  invalided  locomotives  and  machin- 
ery, reddish  with  rust  and  bound,  like  Gulliver,  by 
green  jungle  strands  and  tropical  creepers.  By  day 
the  arch-roofed  labor-camps  were  silent  and  empty, 
but  for  a  lonely  janitor  languidly  mopping  a  floor. 
Before  the  buildings  a  black  gang  was  dipping  the 
canvas  and  gas-pipe  bunks  one  by  one  into  a  great 
kettle  of  scalding  water.  But  there  are  also  "  mar- 
ried quarters  "  at  Cunette.  A  row  of  six  govern- 
ment houses  tops  the  ridge,  with  six  families  in  each 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  39 

house,  and  —  no,  I  dare  not  risk  nomination  to  an 
ever  expanding  though  unpopular  club  by  stating 
how  many  in  a  family.  I  will  venture  merely  to  as- 
sert that  when  noon-time  came  I  was  not  well  started 
on  the  second  house,  yet  carried  away  more  than 
sixty  filled-out  cards. 

More  than  two  days  that  single  row  of  houses  en- 
dured, varied  by  nights  spent  with  "  the  boss  "  in 
the  labor-camps  of  Lirio,  Culebra  way.  Then  one 
morning  I  tramped  far  out  the  highway  to  the  old 
Scotchman's  farm-house  that  bounds  Empire  on  the 
north  and  began  the  long  intricate  journey  through 
the  private-owned  town  itself.  It  was  like  attending 
a  congress  of  the  nations,  a  museum  exhibition  of 
all  the  shapes  and  hues  in  which  the  human  vegeta- 
ble grows.  Tenements  and  wobbly-kneed  shanties 
swarming  with  exhibits  monopolized  the  landscape; 
strange  the  room  that  did  not  yield  up  at  least  a 
man  and  woman  and  three  or  four  children.  Day 
after  blazing  day  I  sat  on  rickety  rhairs, 
ironing-boards,  veranda  railings,  climbing 
stairways,  now  and  again  descending  a  treacherous 
one  in  unintentional  haste  and  ungraceful  posture, 
burrowing  into  blind  but  inhabited  cubby-holes^ 
hunting  out  squatters'  nests  of  tin  cans  and  dry- 
goods  boxes  hidden  away  behind  the  legitimate 
buildings,  shouting  questions  into  dilapidated  ear- 
drums, delving  into  the  past  of  every  human  being 
who  fell  in  my  way.  West  Indian  negroes  easily 


40  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

kept  the  lead  of  all  other  nationalities  combined; 
negroes  blacker  than  the  obsidian  cutlery  of  the 
Aztecs,  blonde  negroes  with  yellow  hair  and  blue 
eyes  whose  race  was  betrayed  only  by  eyelids  and 
the  dead  whiteness  of  skin,  and  whom  one  could  not 
set  down  as  such  after  enrolling  swarthy  Spaniards 
as  "  white  "  without  a  smile. 

They  lived  chiefly  in  windowless,  six-by-eight 
rooms,  always  a  cheap,  dirty  calico  curtain  dividing 
the  three-foot  parlor  in  front  from  the  five-foot  bed- 
room behind,  the  former  cluttered  with  a  van-load 
of  useless  junk,  dirty  blankets,  decrepit  furniture, 
glittering  gewgaws,  a  black  baby  squirming  naked 
in  a  basket  of  rags  with  an  Episcopal  prayerbook 
under  its  pillow  —  relic  of  the  old  demon-scaring 
superstitions  of  Voodoo  worship.  Every  inch  of  the 
walls  was  "  decorated,"  after  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment of  the  race,  with  pages  of  illustrated  maga- 
zines or  newspapers,  half-tones  of  all  things  con- 
ceivable with  no  small  amount  of  text  in  sundry 
languages,  many  a  page  purely  of  advertising  mat- 
ter, the  muscular,  imbruted  likeness  of  a  certain  black 
champion  rarely  missing,  frequently  with  a  Bible  laid 
reverently  beneath  it.  Outside,  before  each  room,  a 
tin  fireplace  for  cooking  precariously  bestrided  the 
veranda  rail. 

Often  a  tumble-down  hovel  where  three  would  seem 
a  crowd  yielded  up  more  than  a  dozen  inmates,  many 
of  whom,  being  at  work,  must  be  looked  for  later  — 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  43 

the  "  back-calls  "  that  is  the  bete-noire  of  the  census 
enumerator.  West  Indians,  however,  are  for  the 
most  part  well  acquainted  with  the  affairs  of  friends 
and  room-mates,  and  enrolment  of  the  absent  was 
often  possible.  Occasionally  I  ran  into  a  den  of 
impertinence  that  must  be  frowned  down,  notably  a 
notorious  swarming  tenement  over  a  lumber-yard. 
But  on  the  whole  the  courtesy  of  British  West  In- 
dians, even  among  themselves,  was  noteworthy.  Of 
the  two  great  divisions  among  them,  Barbadians 
seemed  more  well-mannered  than  Jamaicans  —  or 
was  it  merely  more  subtle  hypocrisy?  Among  them 
all  the  most  unspoiled  children  of  nature  appeared 
to  be  those  from  the  little  island  of  Nevis. 

"  You  ain't  no  American  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ah  is." 

"  Why,  you  de  bery  furst  American  ah  eber  see 
dat  was  perlite." 

Which  spoke  badly  indeed  for  the  others,  that  not 
being  one  of  the  virtues  I  strive  particularly  to  cul- 
tivate. 

But  "  perlite  "  or  not,  there  can  be  no  question  of 
the  astounding  stupidity  of  the  West  Indian  rank 
and  file,  a  stupidity  amusing  if  you  are  in  an  amus- 
able  mood,  unendurable  if  you  neglect  to  pack  your 
patience  among  your  bag  of  supplies  in  the  morn- 
ing. Tropical  patience,  too,  is  at  best  a  frail  child. 
The  dry-season  sun  rarely  even  veiled  his  face,  and 
there  were  those  among  the  enumerators  who  com- 


44  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

plained  of  the  taxing  labor  of  all-day  marching  up 
and  down  streets  and  stairs  and  Zone  hills  beneath 
it;  but  to  me,  fresh  from  tramping  over  the  moun- 
tains of  Central  America  with  twenty  pounds  on 
my  shoulders,  this  was  mere  pastime.  Heat  had  no 
terrors  for  the  enumerated,  however.  Often  in  the 
hottest  hour  of  the  day  I  came  upon  negroes  sleep- 
ing in  tightly  closed  rooms,  the  sweat  running  off 
them  in  streams,  yet  apparently  vastly  enjoying  the 
situation. 

Sunday  came  and  I  chose  to  continue,  though 
virtually  all  the  Zone  was  on  holiday  and  even  "  the 
boss,"  after  what  I  found  later  to  be  his  invariable 
custom,  had  broken  away  from  his  card-littered 
dwelling-place  on  Saturday  evening  and  hurried 
away  to  Panama,  drawn  thither  and  held  till  Mon- 
day morning  —  by  some  irresistible  attraction. 
Sunday  turns  holiday  completely  on  the  Zone,  even 
to  hours  of  trains  and  hotels.  The  frequent  pas- 
sengers were  packed  from  southern  white  end  to 
northern  black  end  with  all  nations  in  gladsome 
garb,  bound  Panamaward  to  see  the  lottery  drawing 
and  buy  a  ticket  for  the  following  Sunday,  across  the 
Isthmus  to  breezy  Colon,  or  to  one  of  a  hundred 
varying  spots  and  pastimes.  Others  in  khaki 
breeches  fresh  from  the  government  laundry  in 
Cristobal  and  the  ubiquitous  leather  leggings  of  the 
"  Zoner  "  were  off  to  ride  out  the  day  in  the  jungles ; 
still  others  set  resolutely  forth  afoot  into  tropical 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  45 

paths ;  a  dozen  or  so,  gleaned  one  by  one  from  all 
the  towns  along  the  line  were  even  on  their  way  to 
church.  Yet  with  all  this  scattering  there  still  re- 
mained a  respectable  percentage  lounging  on  the 
screened  verandas  in  pajamas  and  kimonas,  "  Old 
Timers  "  of  four  or  five  or  even  six  years'  standing 
who  were  convinced  they  had  seen  and  heard,  and 
smelt  and  tasted  all  that  the  Zone  or  tropical  lands 
have  to  offer. 

Well  on  in  the  morning  there  was  a  general  gather- 
ing of  all  the  ditch-digging  clans  of  Empire  and 
vicinity  in  a  broad  field  close  under  the  eaves  of 
the  town,  and  soon  there  came  drifting  across  to  me 
at  my  labor,  hoarse,  frenzied  screams;  sounding 
strangely  incongruous  beneath  the  swaying  palm- 
trees  ; 

"  Come  on !     Get  down  with  his  arm !     Aaaaahrrr !  " 

But  my  time  was  well  chosen.  In  the  Spanish  camps 
above  the  canal,  still  and  silent  with  Sunday,  men  at 
no  other  time  to  be  run  to  earth  were  entrapped  in 
their  bunks,  under  their  dwelling-places  in  the  shade, 
shaving,  exchanging  hair-cuts,  washing  workaday 
clothes,  reminiscing  over  far-off  homes  and  pre- 
migratory  days,  or  merely  loafing.  The  same 
cheery,  friendly,  quick-witted  fellows  they  were  as 
in  their  native  land,  even  the  few  Italians  and  rare 
Portuguese  scattered  among  them  inoculated  with 
their  cheerfulness. 


46  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

Came  sudden  changes  to  camps  of  Martiniques,  a 
sort  of  wild,  untamed  creature,  who  spoke  a  distress- 
ing imitation  of  French  which  even  he  did  not  for  a 
moment  claim  to  be  such,  but  frankly  dubbed  patois. 
Restless-eyed  black  men  who  answered  to  their 
names  only  at  the  question  "  Cummun  t'appelle  ?  " 
and  give  their  age  only  to  those  who  open  wide  their 
mouths  and  cry,  "  Caje-vous?  "  Then  on  again  to 
the  no  less  strange,  sing-song  "  English "  of 
Jamaica,  the  whining  tones  of  those  whose  island  trees 
the  conquesting  Spaniards  found  bearded  —  "  bar- 
bados  " —  now  and  again  a  more  or  less  dark  Costa 
Rican,  Guatemalteco,  Venezuelan,  stray  islanders 
from  St.  Vincent,  Trinidad,  or  Guadalupe,  individ- 
uals defying  classification.  But  the  chief  reward  for 
denying  myself  a  holiday  were  the  "  back-calls  "  in 
the  town  itself  which  I  was  able  to  check  out  of  my 
field-book.  Many  a  long-sought  negro  I  roused  from 
his  holiday  siesta,  dashing  past  the  tawdry  calico 
curtains  to  pound  him  awake  —  mere  auricular  dem- 
onstration having  only  the  effect  of  lulling  him  into 
deeper  child-like  slumber.  The  surest  and  often  only 
effective  means  was  to  tickle  the  slumberer  gently  on 
the  soles  of  the  bare  feet  with  some  airy,  delicate 
instrument  such  as  my  tack-hammer,  or  a  convenient 
broom-handle  or  flat-iron.  Frequently  I  came  upon 
young  negro  men  of  the  age  and  type  that  in  white 
skins  would  have  been  loafing  on  pool-room  corners, 
reading  to  themselves  in  loud  and  solemn  voices  from 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  47 

the  Bible,  with  a  far-away  look  in  their  eyes ;  always    V 
I  was  surrounded  by  a  never-broken  babble  of  voices, 
for  the  West  Indian  negro  can  let  his  face  run  un- 
ceasingly all  the  day  through,  and  the  night,  though     S 
he  have  never  a  word  to  say. 

Thus  my  "  enumerated  "  tags  spread  further  and 
wider  over  the  city  of  Empire.  I  reached  in  due 
time  the  hodge-podge  shops  and  stores  of  Railroad 
Avenue.  Chinamen  began  to '  drift  into  the  rolls, 
there  appeared  such  names  as  Carmen  Wah  Chang, 
cooks  and  waitresses  living  in  darksome  back  cup- 
boards must  be  unearthed,  negro  shoemakers  were 
caught  at  their  stands  on  the  sidewalks,  shiny-haired 
bartenders  gave  up  their  biographies  in  nasal  mono- 
syllables amid  the  slop  of  "  suds  "  and  the  scrape  of 
celluloid  froth-eradicators.  Rare  was  the  land  that 
had  not  sent  representatives  to  this  great  dirt-shovel- 
ing congress.  A  Syrian  merchant  gasped  for 
breath  and  fell  over  his  counter  in  delight  to  find 
that  I,  too,  had  been  in  his  native  Zakleh,  five 
Punjabis  all  but  died  of  pleasure  when  I  mispro- 
nounced three  words  of  their  tongue.  Occasionally 
there  came  startling  contrast  as  I  burst  unexpectedly 
into  the  ancestral  home  of  some  educated  native 
family  that  had  withstood  all  the  tides  of  time  and 
change  and  still  lived  in  the  beloved  "  Emperador  " 
of  their  forefathers.  Anger  was  usually  near  the 
surface  at  my  intrusion,  but  they  quickly  changed 
to  their  ingrown  politeness  and  chatty  sociability 


48  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

when  addressed  in  tha'r  »wn  tongue  and  treated  in 
their  own  extravagant  gestures.  It  was  almost  sure 
to  return  again,  however,  at  the  question  whether  they 
were  Panamanians.  Distinctly  not!  They  were 
Colombians!  There  is  no  such  country  as  Panama. 

Thus  the  enrolling  of  the  faithful  continued. 
Chinese  laundrymen  divulged  the  secrets  of  their 
mysterious  past  between  spurts  of  water  at  steam- 
ing shirt-bosoms ;  Chinese  merchants,  of  whom  there 
are  hordes  on  the  Zone,  cueless,  dressed  and  be- 
tailored  till  you  must  look  at  them  twice  to  tell  them 
from  "  gold "  employees,  the  flag  of  the  new  re- 
public flapping  above  their  doors,  the  new  president 
in  their  lapels,  left  off  selling  crucifixes  and  breast- 
pin medallions  of  Christ  to  negro  women,  to  answer 
my  questions.  One  evening  I  stumbled  into  a  nest 
of  eleven  Bengali  peddlers  with  the  bare  floor  of  their 
single  room  as  bed,  table,  and  chairs ;  in  one  corner, 
surmounted  by  their  little  embroidered  skull-caps, 
were  stacked  the  bundles  with  which  they  pester  Zone 
housewives,  and  in  another  their  god  wrapped  in  a 
dirty  rag  against  profaning  eyes. 

Many  days  had  passed  before  I  landed  the  first 
Zone  resident  I  could  not  enroll  unassisted.  He  was 
a  heathen  Chinee  newly  arrived,  who  spoke  neither 
Spanish  nor  English.  It  was  "  Chinese  Charlie " 
who  helped  me  out.  "  Chinese  Charlie  "  was  a  resi- 
dent of  the  Zone  before  the  days  of  de  Lesseps  and 
at  our  first  meeting  had  insisted  on  being  enrolled 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  49 

under  that  pseudonym,  alleging  it  his  real  name. 
Upstairs  above  his  store  all  was  sepulchral  silence 
when  I  mounted  to  investigate  —  and  I  came  quickly 
and  quietly  down  again ;  for  the  door  had  opened  on 
the  gaudy  Oriental  splendor  of  a  joss-house  where 
dwelt  only  grinning  wooden  idols  not  counted  as  Zone 
residents  by  the  materialistic  census  officials.  On 
the  Isthmus  as  elsewhere  "  John  "  is  a  law-abiding 
citizen  —  within  limits ;  never  obsequious,  nearly  al- 
ways friendly,  ready  to  answer  questions  quite 
cheerily  so  long  as  he  considers  the  matter  any  of 
your  business,  but  closing  infinitely  tighter  than  the 
maltreated  bivalve  when  he  fancies  you  are  prying 
too  far. 

In  time  I  reached  the  Commissary  —  the  govern- 
ment department  store  —  and  enrolled  it  from  cash- 
desk  to  cold-storage;  Empire  hotel,  from  steward  to 
scullions,  filed  by  me  whispering  autobiography ;  the 
police  station  on  its  knoll  fell  like  the  rest.  I  went 
to  jail  —  and  set  down  a  large  score  of  black  men 
and  a  pair  of  European  whites,  back  from  a  day's 
sweaty  labor  of  road  building,  who  lived  now  in  un- 
accustomed cleanliness  in  the  heart  of  the  lower  story 
of  a  fresh  wooden  building  with  light  iron  bars,  easy 
to  break  out  of  were  it  not  that  policemen,  white  and 
black,  sleep  on  all  sides  of  them.  Crowded  old  Em- 
pire not  only  faces  her  streets  but  even  her  back 
yards  are  filled  with  shacks  and  inhabited  boxes  to 
be  hunted  out.  On  the  hem  of  her  tattered  out- 


50  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

skirts  and  the  jungle  edges  I  ran  into  heaps  of  old 
abandoned  junk, —  locomotives,  cars,  dredges,  boil- 
ers (some  with  the  letters  "  U.  S."  painted  upon 
them,  which  sight  gave  some  three-day  investigator 
material  to  charge  the  I.  C.  C.  with  untold  waste)  ; 
all  now  soon  to  be  removed  by  a  Chicago  wrecking 
company. 

Then  all  the  town  must  be  done  again  — "  back 
calls."  By  this  time  so  wide  and  varied  was  my 
acquaintance  in  Empire  that  wenches  withdrew  a 
dripping  hand  from  their  tubs  to  wave  at  me  with 
a  sympathetic  giggle,  and  piccaninnies  ran  out  to 
meet  me  as  I  returned  in  quest  of  one  missing  inmate 
in  a  house  of  fifty.  For  the  few  laborers  still  un- 
caught  I  took  to  coming  after  dark.  But  West 
Indians  rarely  own  lamps,  not  even  the  brass  tax- 
numbers  above  the  doors  were  visible,  and  as  for  a 
negro  in  the  dark  — 

Absurd  rumors  had  begun  early  to  circulate  among 
the  darker  brethren.  In  all  negrodom  the  convic- 
tion became  general  that  this  individual  detailed 
catechising  and  house-branding  was  really  a  govern- 
ment scheme  to  get  lists  of  persons  due  for  deporta- 
tion, either  for  lack  of  work  as  the  canal  neared  com- 
pletion or  for  looseness  of  marital  relations.  Hardly 
a  tenement  did  I  enter  but  laughing  voices  bandied 
back  and  forth  and  there  echoed  and  reechoed 
through  the  building  such  remarks  as : 

"  Well,    dey    g5n'    sen'    us    home,    Penelope,"    or 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  53 

**  Yo  an*  Percival  better  hurry  up  an'  git  married, 
Ambrosia." 

Several  dusky  females  regularly  ran  away  when- 
ever I  approached;  one  at  least  I  came  a-seeking  in 
vain  nine  times,  and  found  her  the  tenth  behind  a 
garbage  barrel.  Many  fancied  the  secret  marks  on 
the  "  enumerated  "  tag  —  date,  and  initials  of  the 
enumerator  —  were  intimately  concerned  with  their 
fate.  So  strong  is  the  fear  of  the  law  imbued  by 
the  Zone  Police  that  they  dared  not  tear  down  the 
dreaded  placard,  but  would  sometimes  sit  staring  at 
it  for  hours  striving  to  penetrate  its  secret  or  ex- 
orcise away  its  power  of  evil,  and  now  and  then  some 
bolder  spirit  ventured  out  —  at  midnight  —  with  a 
pencil  and  put  tails  and  extra  flourishes  on  the 
penciled  letters  in  the  hope  of  disguising  them 
against  the  fatal  day. 

Except  for  the  chaos  of  nationalities  and  types  on 
the  Zone,  enumerating  would  have  become  more  than 
monotonous.  But  the  enumerated  took  care  to  break 
the  monotony.  There  was  the  wealth  of  nomencla- 
ture for  instance.  What  more  striking  than  a  shin- 
ing-black waiter  strutting  proudly  about  under  the 
name  of  Lev!  McCarthy?  There  was  no  necessity 
of  asking  Beresford  Plantaganct  if  he  were  a  British 
subject.  Naturally  the  mother  of  Hazarmaneth 
Cumberbath  Smith,  baptized  that  very  week,  had  to 
claw  out  the  family  Bible  from  among  the  bed-clothes 
and  look  up  the  name  on  the  fly-leaf. 


54  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

To  the  enumerator,  who  must  set  down  concise  and 
exact  answers  to  each  of  his  questions,  fifty  or  sixty 
daily  scenes  and  replies  something  like  these  were 
delightful ; 

Enumerator  (sitting  down  on  the  edge  of  a  bar- 
rel) :  "How  many  living  in  this  room?" 

Explosive  laughter  from  the  buxom,  jet-black 
woman  addressed. 

Enumerator  (on  a  venture)  :  "  What 's  the  man's 
name?  " 

"  He  name  'Rasmus  Iggleston." 

"What's  his  metal-check  number?" 

"  Lard,  mahster,  ah  d5n'  know  he  check  number." 

"Haven't  you  a  commissary-book  with  it  in?" 

"  Lard  no,  mah  love,  commissary-book  him 
feeneesh  already  befo'  las'  week." 

"Is  he  a  Jamaican?" 

"  No,  him  a  Mont-rat,  mahster."  (Monsterra- 
tian.) 

"What  color  is  he?" 

"  Te !  He !  Wha'  fo'  yo  as'  all  dem  questions, 
mahster?  " 

"  For  instance." 

"  Oh,  him  jes'  a  pitch  darker  'n  me." 

"How  old  is  he?" 

(Loud  laughter)  "  Law',  ah  don'  know  how  ol' 
him  are ! " 

"Well,  about  how  old?" 

"  Oh,  him  a  ripe  man,  mah  love,  him  a  prime  man." 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  55 

"  Is  he  older  than  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  him  older  'n  me." 

"  And  how  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Te !  He !  'Deed  ah  don'  know  how  ol'  ah  is ;  ah 
gone  los'  mah  age  paper." 

"  Is  he  married?  " 

(Quickly  and  with  very  grave  face)  "  Oh,  yes  in- 
deed, mahster,  Ah  his  sure  'nough  wife." 

"Can  he  read?" 

(Hesitatingly)  "  Er  —  a  leetle,  sir,  not  too 
much,  sir."  (Which  generally  means  he  can  spell 
out  a  few  words  of  one  syllable  and  make  some  sort 
of  mark  representing  his  name.) 

**  What  kind  of  work  does  he  do?  " 

(Haughtily)      "Him  employed  by  de  I.  C.  C." 

"  Yes,  naturally.  But  what  kind  of  work  does  he 
do.  Is  he  a  laborer?  " 

(Quickly  and  very  impressively)  "  Laborer !  Oh, 
no,  mah  sweet  mahster,  he  jes'  shovel  away  de  dirt 
befo'  de  steam  shovel." 

"  All  right.  That  '11  do  for  'Rasmus.  Now  your 
name  ?  " 

"  Mah  name  Mistress  Jane  Iggleston." 

"  How  long  have  you  lived  on  the  Canal 
Zone?  " 

"  Oh,  not  too  long,  mah  love." 

"  Since  when  have  you  lived  in  this  house?  " 

"  Oh,  we  don'  come  to  dis  house  too  long,  sah." 

"  Can  you  read  and  write?  " 


56 

"  No,  ah  don'  stay  in  Jamaica.  Ah  come  to 
Panama  when  ah  small." 

"  Do  you  do  any  work  besides  your  own  house- 
work? " 

(Evasively)  "  Work?  If  ah  does  any  work? 
No,  not  any." 

Enumerator  looks  hard  from  her  to  washtub. 

"  Ah  —  er  —  oh,  ah  washes  a  couple  o'  gentlemen's 
clot'es." 

"  Very  good.     Now  then,  how  many  children?  " 

"  We  don'  git  no  children,  sah." 

"  What !     How  did  that  happen?  " 

Loud,  house-shaking  laughter. 

Enumerator  (looking  at  watch  and  finding  it 
12 :10)  :  "  Well,  good  afternoon." 

"  Good  evenin',  sah.     Thank  you,  sah.     Te !  He !  " 

Variations  on  the  above  might  fill  many  pages: 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

Self-appointed  interpreter  of  the  same  shade ;  "  He 
as*  how  old  is  y5  ?  " 

"  How  old  I  are?  Ah  don  rightly  know  mah  age, 
mahster,  mah  mother  never  top  me." 

St.  Lucian  woman,  evidently  about  forty-five,  after 
deep  thought,  plainly  anxious  to  be  as  truthful  as 
possible :  "  Er — ah  's  twenty,  sir." 

"  Oh,  you  're  older  than  that.     About  sixty,  say?  " 

"'Bout  dat,  sah." 

"  Are  you  married  ?  " 

(Pushing  the  children  out  of  the  way.)     "  N-not  as 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  5T 

yet,  mah  sweet  mahster,  bu-but  —  but  we  go  'n'  be 
soon,  sah." 

To  a  Barbadian  woman  of  forty :  "  Just  you  and 
your  daughter  live  here?  " 

"  Dat  's  all,  sir." 

"Doesn't  your  husband  live  here?" 

"  Oh,  ah  don't  never  marry  as  yet,  sah." 

Anent  the  old  saying  about  the  partnership  of  life 
and  hope. 

To  a  Dominican  woman  of  fifty-two,  toothless  and 
pitted  with  small-pox:  "Are  you  married?" 

(With  simpering  smile)  "  Not  as  yet,  mah  sweet 
mahster." 

To  a  Jamaican  youth ; 

"  How  many  people  live  in  this  room  ?  " 

"  Three  persons  live  here,  sir." 

"  I  stand  grammatically  corrected.  When  did  you 
move  here?  " 

"  We  remove  here  in  April." 

"  Again  I  apologize  for  my  mere  American  gram- 
mar. Now,  Henry,  what  is  your  room-mate's 
name  ?  " 

"  Well,  we  calls  him  Ethel,  but  I  don't  know  his 
right  title.  Pcradventure  he  will  not  work  this  even- 
ing [afternoon]  and  you  can  ask  him  from  him- 
self." 

"  Do  his  parents  live  on  the  Zone?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sah,  he  has  one  father  and  one  mother." 

An    answer:    "Why    himself    [emphatic    subject 


58  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

pronoun  among  Barbadians]  did  n't  know  if  he'd 
get  a  job." 

To  a  six-foot  black  giant  working  as  night-hostler 
of  steam-shovels: 

"  Well,  Josiah,  I  suppose  you  're  a  Jamaican?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  boss,  ah  work  in  Kingston  ten  years  as  a 
bar-maid." 

"Married?" 

"  No,  boss,  ah  's  not  'xactly  married.  Ah  's  livin' 
with  a  person." 

A  colored  family: 

Sarah  Green,  very  black,  has  a  child  named  Edward 
White,  and  is  now  living  with  Henry  Brown,  a  light 
yellow  negro. 

West  Indian  wit : 

A  shop-sign  in  Empire :  "  Don't  ask  for  credit. 
He  is  gone  on  vacation  since  January  1,  1912." 

Laughter  and  carefree  countenances  are  legion  in 
the  West  Indian  ranks,  children  seem  never  to  be  pun- 
ished, and  to  all  appearances  man  and  wife  live  com- 
monly in  peace  and  harmony.  Dr.  O tells  the 

following  story,  however: 

In  his  rounds  he  came  upon  a  negro  beating  his 
wife  and  had  him  placed  under  arrest.  The  negro: 
"  Why,  boss,  can't  a  man  chastize  his  wife  when  she 
desarves  and  needs  it  ?  " 

Dr.  O :  "Not  on  the  Canal  Zone.  It's 

against  the  law.'* 

Negro  (in  great  astonishment) :  "  Is  dat  so,  boss. 


"  Nuevo  Kingston,"  a  Negro  tenement  of  Empire.     Each  sheet-iron  cook- 
ing-place on  the  veranda  rail  represents  a   family 


'Ah  don  rightly  know  mah  age,  mahster;  ah  gone  los'  mah  age  paper" 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  61 

Den  ah  '11  never  do  it  again,  boss  —  on  de  Canal 
Zone." 

One  morning  in  the  heart  of  Empire  a  noise  not 
unlike  that  of  a  rocky  waterfall  began  to  grow  upon 
my  ear.  Louder  and  louder  it  swelled  as  I  worked 
slowly  forward.  At  last  I  discovered  its  source.  In 
a  lower  room  of  a  tenement  an  old  white-haired  Ja- 
maican had  fitted  up  a  private  school,  to  which  the 
elite  among  the  darker  brethren  sent  their  children, 
rather  than  patronize  the  common  public  schools 
Uncle  Sam  provides  free  to  all  Zone  residents. 
The  old  man  sat  before  some  twenty  wide-eyed 
children,  one  of  whom  stood  slouch-shouldered, 
book  in  hand,  in  the  center  of  the  room,  and  at 
regular  intervals  of  not  more  than  twenty  seconds  he 
shouted  high  above  all  other  noises  of  the  neighbor- 
hood : 

"  Yo  calls  dat  Eng-leesh !  How  eber  y5  gon'  1'arn 
talk  proper  lika  dat,  yo  tell  me?  " 

Far  back  in  the  interior  of  an  Empire  block  I  came 
upon  an  old,  old  negro  woman,  parchment-skinned 
and  doddering,  living  alone  in  a  stoop-shouldered 
shanty  of  boxes  and  tin  cans.  "  Ah  don'  know  how 
oP  ah  is,  mahster,"  was  one  of  her  replies,  "  but  ah 
born  six  years  befo'  de  cholera  diskivered." 

"  When  did  you  come  to  Panama  ?  " 

"  Ah  don'  know,  but  it  a  long  time  ago." 

"  Before  the  Americans,  perhaps  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  long  befo' !     De  French  ain't  only  jes'  begin 


62  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

to  dig.  Ah 's  ashamed  to  say  how  long  ah  been 
here  "  (just  why  was  not  evident,  unless  she  fancied 
she  should  long  ago  have  made  her  fortune  and  left). 
"  Is  you  a  American  ?  Well,  de  Americans  sure  have 
done  one  thing.  Dey  mak*  dis  country  civilize. 
Why,  chil',  befo*  dey  come  we  have  all  de  time  here 
revolutions.  Ah  could  n't  count  to  how  many  revo- 
lutions we  had,  an'  ebery  time  dey  steal  all  what  we 
have.  Dey  even  steal  mah  clothes.  Ah  sure  glad  fo' 
one  de  Americans  come." 

It  was  during  my  Empire  enumerating  that  I  was 
startled  one  morning  to  burst  suddenly  from  the 
tawdry,  junk- jumbled  rooms  of  negroes  into  a  bare- 
floored,  freshly  scrubbed  room  containing  some  very 
clean  cots,  a  small  table  and  a  hammock,  and  a  general 
air  of  frankness  and  simplicity,  with  no  attempt  to 
disguise  the  commonplace.  At  the  table  sat  a  Span- 
iard in  worn  but  newly  washed  working-clothes,  book 
in  hand.  I  sat  down  and,  falling  unconsciously  into 
the  "  th "  pronunciation  of  the  Castilian,  began 
blithely  to  reel  off  the  questions  that  had  grown  so 
automatic. 

"Name?" — ; — Federico  Malero.  "Check  Num- 
ber? "—"  Can  you  read?"  "A  little."  The 
barest  suggestion  of  amusement  in  his  voice  caused 
me  to  look  up  quickly.  "  My  library,"  he  said,  with 
the  ghost  of  a  weird  smile,  nodding  his  head  slightly 
toward  an  unpainted  shelf  made  of  pieces  of  dynamite 
boxes,  "  Mine  and  my  room-mates."  The  shelf  was 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  63 

filled  with  four  —  real  Barcelona  paper  editions  of 
Hegel,  Fichte,  Spencer,  Huxley,  and  a  half-dozen 
others  accustomed  to  sit  in  the  same  company,  all 
dog-eared  with  much  reading. 

"  Some  ambitious  foreman,"  I  mused,  and  went  on 
with  my  queries : 

"  Occupation?  " 

"  Pico  y  pala,"  he  answered. 

"  Pick  and  shovel !  "  I  exclaimed — "  and  read 
those?" 

"  No  importa,"  he  answered,  again  with  that  elu- 
sive shadow  of  a  smile,  "  It  does  n't  matter,"  and  as 
I  rose  to  leave,  "  Buenos  dias,  senor,"  and  he  turned 
again  to  his  reading. 

I  plunged  into  the  jumble  of  negroes  next  door, 
putting  my  questions  and  setting  down  the  answers 
without  even  hearing  them,  my  thoughts  still  back 
in  the  clean,  bare  room  behind,  wondering  whether 
I  should  not  have  been  wiser  after  all  to  have  ignored 
the  sharp-drawn  lines  and  the  prejudices  of  my  fel- 
low-countrymen and  joined  the  pick  and  shovel  Zone 
world.  There  might  have  been  pay  dirt  there.  A 
few  months  before,  I  remembered,  a  Spanish  laborer 
killed  in  a  dynamite  explosion  in  the  "  cut  "  had 
turned  out  to  be  one  of  Spain's  most  celebrated 
lawyers.  I  recalled  that  El  Unico,  the  anarchist 
Spanish  weekly  published  in  Miraflores  contains  some 
crystal-clear  thinking  set  forth  in  a  sharp-cut  manner 
that  shows  a  real  inside  knowledge  of  the  "  job  "  and 


64  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

the  canal  workers,  however  little  one  may  agree  with 
its  philosophy  and  methods. 

Then  it  was  due  to  the  law  of  contrasts,  I  suppose, 
that  the  thought  of  "  Tom,"  my  room-mate,  sud- 
denly flashed  upon  me;  and  I  discovered  myself 
chuckling  at  the  picture,  "  Tom,  the  Rough-neck,"  to 
whom  all  such  as.  Federico  Malero  with  his  pick  and 
shovel  were  mere  "  silver  men,"  on  whom  "  Tom  " 
looked  down  from  his  high  perch  on  his  steam-shovel 
as  far  less  worthy  of  notice  than  the  rock  he  was 
clawing  out  of  the  hillside.  How  many  a  silent 
chuckle  and  how  many  a  covert  sneer  must  the 
Maleros  on  the  Zone  indulge  in  at  the  pompous  airs 
of  some  American  ostensibly  far  above  them. 


CHAPTER  III 

MEANWHILE  my  fellow  enumerators  were  re- 
porting troubles  "  in  the  bush."  I  heard  par- 
ticularly those  of  two  of  the  Marines,  "  Mac  "  and 
Renson,  merry,  good-natured,  earnest-by-spurts,  even 
modest  fellows  quite  different  from  what  I  had  hith- 
erto pictured  as  an  enlisted  man. 

"  Mac  "  was  a  half  and  half  of  Scotch  and  Italian. 
Naturally  he  was  constantly  effervescing,  both  verb- 
ally and  temperamentally,  his  snapping  black  eyes 
were  never  still,  life  played  across  his  excitable,  sunny 
boyish  face  like  cloud  shadows  on  a  mountain  land- 
scape, whoever  would  speak  to  him  at  any  length  must 
catch  him  in  a  vice-like  grip  and  hold  his  attention  by 
main  force.  He  spoke  with  a  funny  little  almost- 
foreign  accent,  was  touching  on  forty,  and  was  the 
youngest  man  at  that  age  in  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  Canal  Zone. 

At  first  sight  you  would  take  "  Mac  "  for  a  mere 
roustabout,  like  most  who  go  a'soldiering.  But  be- 
fore long  you  'd  begin  to  wonder  where  he  got  his  rich 
and  fluent  vocabulary  and  his  warehouse  of  informa- 
tion. Then  you  'd  run  across  the  fact  that  he  had 
once  finished  a  course  in  a  middle-western  university 

65 


66  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

—  and  forgotten  it.  The  schools  had  left  little  of 
their  blighting  mark  upon  him,  yet  "  pump  "  "  Mac  " 
on  any  subject  from  rapid-fire  guns  to  grand  opera 
and  you  'd  get  at  least  a  reasonable  answer.  Though 
you  would  n't  guess  the  knowledge  was  there  unless 
you  did  pump  for  it,  for  "  Mac  "  was  not  of  the  type 
of  those  who  overwork  the  first  person  pronoun,  not 
because  of  foolish  diffidence  but  merely  because  it 
rarely  occurred  to  him  as  a  subject  of  conversation. 
Seventeen  years  in  the  marine  corps  —  you  were  sure 
he  was  "  jollying  "  when  he  first  said  it  —  had  taken 
"  Mac  "  to  most  places  where  warships  go,  from  Pe- 
kin  and  "  the  Islands  "  to  Cape  Town  and  Buenos 
Ayres,  and  given  him  not  merely  an  acquaintance 
with  the  world  but  —  what  is  far  more  of  an  acquisi- 
tion —  the  gift  of  getting  acquainted  in  almost  any 
stratum  of  the  world  in  the  briefest  possible  space  of 
time. 

"  Mac "  spoke  not  only  his  English  and  Italian 
but  a  fluent  **  Islands  "  Spanish ;  he  knew  enough 
French  to  talk  even  to  Martiniques,  and  he  could 
moreover  make  two  distinct  sets  of  noises  that  were 
understood  by  Chinese  and  Japanese  respectively.  He 
was  a  man  just  reckless  enough  in  all  things  to  be 
generous  and  alive,  yet  never  foolishly  wasteful  either 
of  himself  or  his  meager  substance.  "  Mac "  first 
rose  to  fame  in  the  census  department  by  appearing 
one  afternoon  at  Empire  police  station  dragging  a 
"  bush  "  native  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  with  one 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  67 

hand,  and  carrying  in  the  other  the  machete  with 
which  the  bushman  had  tried  to  prove  he  was  a  Colom- 
bian and  not  subject  to  questioning  by  the  agents  of 
other  powers. 

Renson  —  well,  Renson  was  in  some  ways  "  Mac's  " 
exact  antithesis  and  in  some  his  twin  brother.  He 
was  one  of  those  youths  who  believe  in  spending  prodi- 
gally and  in  all  possible  haste  what  little  nature  has 
given  them.  Wherefore,  though  he  was  younger  than 
"  Mac  "  appeared  to  be,  he  already  looked  older  than 
"  Mac  "  was.  In  Zone  parlance  "  he  had  already 
laid  a  good  share  of  the  road  to  Hell  behind  him." 
Yet  such  a  cheery,  likable  chap  was  Renson,  so  large- 
hearted  and  unassuming  —  that  was  just  why  you 
felt  an  itching  to  seize  him  by  the  collar  of  his  olive- 
drab  shirt  and  shake  him  till  his  teeth  rattled  for 
tossing  himself  so  wantonly  to  the  infernal  bow-wows. 

Renson's  "  bush  "  troubles  were  legion.  Not  only 
were  there  the  seducing  brown  "  Spigoty  "  women  out 
in  the  wilderness  to  help  him  on  his  descending  trail, 
but  when  and  wherever  fire-water  of  whatever  nation- 
ality or  degree  of  voltage  showed  its  neck  —  and  it 
is  to  be  found  even  in  "  the  bush  " —  there  was  Ren- 
son sure  to  give  battle  —  and  fall.  "  It 's  no  use 
bein'  a  man  unless  you  're  a  hell  of  a  man,"  was  Ren- 
son's  "  influenced  "  philosophy.  How  different  this 
was  from  his  native  good  sense  when  the  influence  was 
turned  off  was  demonstrated  when  he  returned  from 
cautiously  reconnoitering  a  cottage  far  back  in  the 


68 

wilds  one  dark  night  and  reported  as  his  reason  for 
postponing  the  enumerating :  "  If  you  'd  butt  in  on 
one  o'  them  Martinique  booze  festivals  they  'd  crown 
you  with  a  bottle." 

Already  one  or  two  enumerators  had  gone  back 
to  private  life  —  by  request.  Particularly  sad  was 
the  case  of  our  dainty,  blue-blooded  Panamanian.  As 
with  many  Panamanians,  and  not  a  few  of  the 
self-exalted  elsewhere,  he  was  more  burdened  with 
blue  corpuscles  than  with  gray  matter.  At  any 
rate  — 

On  our  cards,  after  the  query  "  Color  ?  "  was  a 
small  space,  a  very  small  space  in  which  was 
to  be  written  quite  briefly  and  unceremoniously 
"W,"  "B,"  or  "Mx"  as  the  case  might  be. 
Uncle  Sam  was  in  a  hurry  for  his  census.  Early 
one  afternoon  our  Panamanian  helpmate  burst 
upon  one  of  his  numerous  aristocratic  relatives 
in  his  royal  thatched  domains  in  the  ancestral 
bush.  When  he  had  embraced  him  the  customary  fif- 
teen times  on  the  right  side  and  the  fifteen  accus- 
tomed times  on  the  left  side,  and  had  performed  the 
eighty-five  gestures  of  greeting  required  by  the  so- 
cial manual  of  the  bush,  and  asked  the  three  hundred 
and  sixty-five  questions  de  rigueur  regarding  the 
honorable  health  of  his  honorable  horde  of  offspring, 
and  his  eye  had  fallen  again  on  the  red  cards  in  his 
hand,  the  fact  struck  him  that  the  relative  was  of  pre- 
cisely the  same  shade  of  complexion  as  himself. 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  69 

Could  he  set  him  down  as  he  had  many  a  mere  red- 
blooded  person  and  thereby  perhaps  establish  a  pre- 
cedent that  might  result  in  his  own  mortification? 
Yet  could  he  stretch  a  shade  —  or  several  shades  — 
and  set  him  down  as  "  white  "  ?  No,  there  was  the 
oath  of  office,  and  the  government  that  administered 
it  had  been  found  long-armed  and  Argus-eyed. 
Long  he  sat  in  deepest  meditation.  Being  a  Pana- 
manian, he  could  not  of  course  know  that  Uncle  Sam 
was  in  a  hurry  for  his  census.  Till  at  length,  as  the 
sun  was  firing  the  western  jungle  tree-tops,  a  scin- 
tillating idea  rewarded  his  unwonted  cogitation.  He 
caught  up  the  medium  soft  pencil  and  wrote  in  aristo- 
cratic hand  down  across  the  sheet  where  other  in- 
formation is  supposed  to  find  place: 

"  Color ;  —  A  very  light  mixture,"  and  taking 
his  leave  with  the  requisite  seventy-five  gestures  and 
genuflexions,  he  drifted  Empireward  with  the  dozen 
cards  the  day  had  yielded. 

Which  is  why  I  was  shocked  next  morning  by  the 
disrespectful  report  of  Renson  that  "  my  friend  the 
boss  had  tied  a  can  to  the  Spig's  tail,"  and  our 
dainty  and  lamented  comrade  went  back  to  the  more 
fitting  blue-blood  occupation  of  swinging  a  cane  in 
the  lobbies  of  Panama's  famous  hostelries. 

But  what  mattered  such  small  losses?  Had  not 
"  Scotty  "  been  engaged  to  fill  the  breach  —  or  all 
of  them,  one  or  two  breaches  more  or  less  made  small 
difference  to  "  Scotty."  He  was  a  cozy  little  barrel 


70  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

of  a  man,  born  in  "  Doombahrton,"  and  for  some 
years  past  had  been  dispensing  good  old  Dumbarton 
English  in  Panama's  proudest  educational  institution. 
But  Panama's  school  vacation  is  during  her  "  sum- 
mer," her  dry  season  from  February  to  April.  What 
more  natural  then  than  that  "  Scotty  "  should  have 
concluded  to  pass  his  vacation  taking  census,  for 
obviously  — "  a  mon  must  pick  up  a  wee  bit  o'  change 
wherever  he  can." 

I  seemed  to  have  been  appointed  to  a  purely  sight- 
seeing job.  One  February  noon  I  reported  at  the 
office  to  find  that  passes  to  Gatun  had  been  issued  to 
five  of  us,  "  Scotty,"  "  Mac,"  Renson,  and  Barter 
among  the  number.  The  task  in  the  "  town  by  the 
dam  site  "  it  seemed,  was  proving  too  heavy  for  the 
regular  enumerators  of  that  district. 

We  left  by  the  2:10  train.  Cascadas  and  Bas 
Obispo  rolled  away  behind  us,  across  the  canal  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  wilderness  surrounding  the 
abode  of  "  Old  Fritz,"  then  we  entered  a  to  me  un- 
known land.  I  could  easily  have  fancied  myself  a 
tourist,  especially  so  at  Matachin  when  "  Mac  "  sol- 
emnly attempted  to  "  spring  "  on  me  the  old  tourist 
hoax  of  suicided  Chinamen  as  the  derivation  of  the 
town's  name.  Through  Gorgona,  the  Pittsburg  of  the 
Zone  with  its  acres  of  machine-shops,  rumbled  the  train 
and  plunged  beyond  into  a  deep,  if  not  exactly  rank, 
endless  jungle.  The  stations  grew  small  and  unim- 
portant. Bailamonos  and  San  Pablo  were  withering 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  71 

and  wasting  away,  "  'Orca  L'garto,"  or  the  Hanged 
Alligator  was  barely  more  than  a  memory,  Tabernilla 
a  mere  heap  of  lumber  being  tumbled  on  flatcars 
bound  for  new  service  further  Pacificward.  Of  Fri- 
joles  there  remained  barely  enough  to  shudder  at, 
with  the  collector's  nasal  bawl  of  "  Free  Holys  !  "  and 
everywhere  the  irrepressible  tropical  greenery  was 
already  rushing  back  to  engulf  the  pigmy  works  of 
man.  It  seemed  criminally  wasteful  to  have  built 
these  entire  towns  with  all  the  detail  and  machinery 
of  a  well  governed  and  fully  furnished  city  from 
police  station  to  salt  cellars  only  to  tear  them  down 
again  and  utterly  wipe  them  out  four  or  five  years 
after  their  founding.  A  forerunner  of  what,  in  a 
few  brief  years,  will  have  happened  to  all  the  Zone 
— nay,  is  not  this  the  way  of  life  itself? 

For  soon  the  Spillway  at  Gatun  is  to  close  its 
gates  and  all  this  vast  region  will  be  flooded  and 
come  to  be  Gatun  Lake.  Villages  that  were  old  when 
Pizarro  began  his  swine-herding  will  be  wiped  out, 
even  this  splendid  double-tracked  railroad  goes  the 
way  of  the  rest,  for  on  February  fifteenth,  a  bare  few 
days  away,  it  was  to  be  abandoned  and  where  we 
were  now  racing  northwestward  through  brilliant  sun- 
shine and  Atlantic  breezes  would  soon  be  the  bottom 
of  a  lake  over  which  great  ocean  steamers  will  glide, 
while  far  below  will  be  tall  palm-trees  and  the  spread- 
ing mangoes,  the  banana,  king  of  weeds,  gigantic 
ferns  and  —  welf,  who  shall  say  what  will  become  of 


72  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

the    brilliant    parrots,    the    monkeys    and    the    ja- 
guars? 

For  nearly  an  hour  we  had  not  a  glimpse  of  the 
canal,  lost  in  the  jungle  to  the  right.  Then  suddenly 
we  burst  out  upon  the  growing  lake,  now  all  but  lick- 
ing at  the  rails  beneath  us,  the  Zone  city  of  Gatun 
climbing  up  a  hillside  on  its  edge  and  scattering  over 
several  more.  To  the  left  I  caught  my  first  sight 
of  the  world-famous  locks  and  dam,  and  at  3:30  we 
descended  at  the  stone  station,  first  mile-post  of  per- 
manency, for  being  out  of  reach  of  the  coming  flood 
it  is  built  to  stay  and  shows  what  Canal  Zone  sta- 
tions will  be  in  the  years  to  come.  There  remained 
for  me  but  seven  miles  of  the  Isthmus  still  unseen. 

On  the  cement  platform  was  a  great  foregathering 
of  the  census  clans  from  all  districts,  whence  we 
climbed  to  the  broad  porch  of  the  administration 
building  above.  There  before  me,  for  the  first  time 
in  —  well,  many  months,  spread  the  Atlantic,  the- 
Caribbean  perhaps  I  should  say,  seeming  very  near, 
so  near  I  almost  fancied  I  could  have  thrown  a  stone 
to  where  it  began  and  stretched  away  up  to  the  bluish 
horizon,  while  the  entrance  to  the  canal  where  soon 
great  ships  will  enter  poked  its  way  inland  to  the 
locks  beside  us.  Across  the  tree-tops  of  the  flat 
jungle,  also  seeming  close  at  hand  though  the  rail- 
road takes  seven  miles  —  and  thirty-five  cents  if  you 
are  no  employee  —  to  reach  it,  was  Colon,  the  tops  of 
whose  low  buildings  were  plainly  visible  above  the 


A  dwelling  >n  "the  bush' 


Along  the  P.  H.  H.  in  New  Gatun 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  75 

vegetation.  Not  many  "  Zoners,"  I  reflected,  catch 
their  first  view  of  Colon  from  the  veranda  of  the  Ad- 
ministration Building  at  Gatun. 

We  had  arrived  with  time  to  spare.  Fully  an  hour 
we  loafed  and  yarned  and  smoked  before  a  whistle 
blew  and  long  lines  of  little  figures  began  to  come 
up  out  of  the  depths  and  zigzag  across  the  landscape 
until  soon  a  line  of  laborers  of  every  shade  known  to 
humanity  began  to  form,  pay-checks  in  hand;  its 
double  head  at  the  pay-windows  on  the  two  sides  of 
the  veranda,  its  tail  serpentining  off  down  the  hill- 
side and  away  nearly  to  the  edge  of  the  mammoth 
locks.  Packs  of  the  yellow  cards  of  Cristobal  district 
in  hand  —  a  relief  to  eyes  that  had  been  staring  for 
days  at  the  pink  ones  of  Empire  —  we  lined  up  like 
birds  of  prey  just  beyond  the  windows.  As  the  first 
laborer  passed  this,  one  —  nay,  several  of  us  pounced 
upon  him,  for  all  plans  we  had  laid  to  line  up  and  take 
turns  were  thus  quickly  overthrown  and  wild  com- 
petition soon  reigned.  From  then  on  each  dived  in 
to  snatch  his  prey  and,  dragging  him  to  the  nearest 
free  space,  began  in  some  language  or  other: 
"Where  d'ye  live?" 

That  was  the  overwhelming  problem, —  in  what  lan- 
guage to  address  each  victim.  Barter,  speaking  only 
his  nasal  New  Jersey,  took  to  picking  out  negroes, 
and  even  then  often  turned  away  in  disgust  when  he 
landed  a  Martinique  or  a  Haytian.  West  Indian 
"  English  "  alternated  with  a  black  patois  that  smelt 


76 

at  times  faintly  of  French,  muscular,  bullet-headed 
negroes  appeared  slowly  and  laboriously  counting 
their  money  in  their  hats,  eagle-nosed  Spaniards  un- 
der the  boma  of  the  Pyrenees,  Spaniards  from  Castile 
speaking  like  a  gatling-gun  in  action,  now  and  again 
even  a  snappy-eyed  Andalusian  with  his  s-less  slurred 
speech,  slow,  laborious  Gallegos,  Italians  and  Portu- 
guese in  numbers,  Colombians  of  nondescript  color, 
a  Slovak  who  spoke  some  German,  a  man  from  Pales- 
tine with  a  mixture  of  French  and  Arabic  noises  I 
could  guess  at,  and  scattered  here  and  there  among 
the  others  a  Turk  who  jabbered  the  lingua  franca  of 
Mediterranean  ports.  I  "  got  "  all  who  fell  into  my 
hands.  Once  I  dragged  forth  a  Hindu,  and  shud- 
dered with  fear  of  a  first  failure.  But  he  knew  a  bit 
of  a  strange  English  and  I  found  I  recalled  six  or 
seven  words  of  my  forgotten  Hindustanee. 

Then  suddenly  a  flood  of  Greeks  broke  upon  us, 
growing  deeper  with  every  moment.  Above  the 
pandemonium  my  companions  were  howling  hoarsely 
and  imploringly  for  the  interpreter,  while  clutching 
their  trembling  victim  by  the  slack  of  his  labor-stained 
shirt  lest  he  escape  un-enrolled.  The  interpreter,  in 
accordance  with  a  well-known  law  of  physics  and  the 
limitations  of  human  nature,  could  not  be  in  sixteen 
places  at  once.  I  crowded  close,  caught  his  words, 
memorized  the  few  questions,  and  there  was  I  with 
my  "Poomaynes?"  "Poseeton?"  and  "  Padre- 
maynos  ?  "  enrolling  Greeks  unassisted,  not  only  that 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  77 

but  haughtily  acting  as  interpreter  for  my  fellows  — 
not  only  without  having  studied  the  tongue  of  Achil- 
les but  never  even  having  graced  a  Greek  letter  fra- 
ternity. 

Quick  tropical  twilight  descended,  and  still  the 
labor-smeared  line  wound  away  out  of  sight  into 
the  darkness,  still  workmen  of  every  shade  and  tongue 
jingled  their  brass-checks  timidly  on  the  edge  of  the 
pay-window,  from  behind  which  came  roaring  noises 
that  the  Americans  within  fancied  Spaniards,  or 
Greeks,  or  Roumanians  must  understand  because  they 
were  not  English  noises ;  still  we  pounced  upon  the 
paid  as  upon  a  tackling-dummy  in  the  early  days  of 
spring  practice. 

The  colossal  wonder  of  it  all  was  how  these  deep- 
chested,  muscle-knotted  fellows  endured  us,  how  they 
refrained  from  taking  us  up  between  a  thumb  and 
forefinger  and  dropping  us  over  the  veranda  railing. 
For  our  attack  lacked  somewhat  in  gentle  courtesy, 
notably  so  that  of  "  the  Rowdy."  He  was  a  chest- 
less  youth  of  the  type  that  has  grown  so  painfully 
prevalent  in  our  land  since  the  soft-hearted  abolish- 
ment of  the  beech-rod  of  revered  memory ;  of  that  all 
too  familiar  type  whose  proofs  of  manhood  are  ciga- 
rettes and  impudence  and  discordant  noise,  and  whose 
national  superiority  is  demonstrated  by  the  maltreat- 
ing of  all  other  races.  But  the  enrolled  were  all, 
black,  white,  or  mixed,  far  more  gentlemen  than  we. 
Some,  of  brief  Zone  experience,  were  sheepish  with 


78  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

fear  and  the  wonder  as  to  what  new  mandate  this  in- 
comprehensible U.  S.  was  perpetrating  to  match  its 
strange  sanitary  laws  that  forbade  a  man  even  to  be 
uncleanly  in  his  habits,  after  the  good  old  sacred 
right  of  his  ancestors  to  remotest  ages.  Then,  too, 
there  was  a  Zone  policeman  in  dressy,  new-starched 
khaki  treading  with  dangling  club  and  the  icy-eye  of 
public  appearance,  waiting  all  too  eagerly  for  some 
one  to  "  start  something."  But  the  great  percent- 
age of  the  maltreated  multitude  were  "  Old  Timers," 
men  of  four  or  five  years  of  digging  who  had  learned 

know  this  strange  creature,  the  American,  and  the 
world,  too;  who  smiled  indulgently  down  upon  our 
yelping  and  yanking  like  a  St.  Bernard  above  the 
snapping  puppy  he  well  knows  cannot  seriously  bite 
him. 

Dense  black  night  had  fallen.  Here  and  there 
lanterns  were  hung,  under  one  of  which  we  dragged 
each  captive.  The  last  passenger  back  to  Empire 
roared  away  into  the  jungle  night ;  still  we  scribbled 
on,  "  backed  "  a  yellow  card  and  dived  again  into  the 
muscular  whirlpool  to  emerge  dragging  forth  by  the 
collar  a  Greek,  a  Pole,  or  a  West  Indian.  It  was  like 
business  competition,  in  which  I  had  an  unfair  advan- 
tage, being  able  to  understand  any  jargon  in  evi- 
dence. When  at  last  the  pay-windows  came  down 
with  a  bang  and  an  American  curse,  and  the  serpen- 
tining tail  squirmed  for  a  time  in  distress  and  died 
away,  as  a  snake's  tail  dies  after  sundown,  I  turned 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  79 

in  more  than  a  hundred  cards.  To-morrow  the  tail 
would  revive  to  form  the  nucleus  of  a  new  serpent, 
and  we  should  return  by  the  afternoon  train  to  the 
lock  city,  and  so  on  for  several  days  to  come. 

It  was  after  nine  of  a  black  pay-day  night.  We 
were  hungry.  "  The  Rowdy,"  familiar  with  the  lay 
of  the  land,  volunteered  to  lead  the  foraging  expedi- 
tion. We  stumbled  down  the  hill  and  away  along 
the  railroad.  A  faint  rumbling  that  grew  to  a  con- 
fused roar  fell  on  our  ears.  We  climbed  a  bank  into 
a  wild  conglomeration  of  wood  and  tin  architecture, 
nationalities,  colors,  and  noises,  and  across  a  dark, 
bottomless  gully  from  the  high  street  we  had  reached 
lights  flashed  amid  a  very  ocean  of  uproar.  "  The 
Rowdy,"  as  if  to  make  the  campaign  as  real  as  pos- 
sible, led  us  racing  down  into  the  black  abyss,  whence 
we  charged  up  the  further  slope  and  came  sweating 
and  breathless  into  the  rampant  rough  and  tumble 
of  pay-day  night  in  New  Gatun,  the  time  and  place 
that  is  the  vortex  of  trouble  on  the  Isthmus.  Merely 
a  short  street  of  one  of  the  half-dozen  Zone  towns  in 
which  liquor  licenses  are  granted,  lined  with  a  few 
saloons  and  pool-rooms ;  but  such  a  singing,  howling, 
swarming  multitude  as  is  rivaled  almost  nowhere  else, 
except  it  be  on  Broadway  at  the  passing  of  the  old 
year.  But  this  mob,  moreover,  was  fully  seventy  per- 
cent black,  and  rather  largely  French  —  and  when 
black  and  French  and  strong  drink  mix,  trouble 
sprouts  like  jungle  seeds.  Now  and  then  Policeman 


80  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

G drifted  by  through  the  uproar,  holding  his 

"  sap  "  loosely  as  for  ready  use  and  often  half  con- 
sciously hitching  the  heavy  No.  38  "  Colt  "  under  his 
khaki  jacket  a  bit  nearer  the  grasp  of  his  right  hand. 
I  little  knew  how  familiar  every  corner  of  this  scene 
would  one  day  be  to  me. 

A  Chinese  grocer  sold  us  bread  and  cheese.  Down 
on  the  further  corner  of  the  hubbub  we  entered  a 
Spanish  saloon  and  spread  ourselves  over  the  "  white  " 
bar,  adding  beer  to  our  humble  collation.  Beyond 
the  lattice-work  that  is  the  "  color  line  "  in  Zone  dis- 
pensaries, West  Indians  were  dancing  wild,  crowded 
"  hoe-downs  "  and  "  shuffles  "  amid  much  howling  and 
more  liquidation;  on  our  side  a  few  Spanish  laborers 
quietly  sipped  their  liquor.  The  Marines  of  course 
were  "  busted."  The  rest  of  us  scraped  up  a  few 
odd  "  Spigoty  "  dimes.  The  Spanish  bar-tender  — 
who  is  never  the  "  tough  "  his  American  counterpart 
strives  to  show  himself  —  but  merely  a  cheery  good- 
fellow  —  drifted  into  our  conversation,  and  when  we 
found  I  had  slept  in  his  native  village  he  would  have 
it  that  we  accept  a  round  of  Valdepenas.  Which 
must  have  been  potent,  for  it  moved  "  Scotty  "  to  un- 
button an  inner  pocket  and  set  up  an  entire  bottle  of 
amontillado.  So  midnight  was  no  great  space  off 
when  we  turned  out  again  into  the  howling  night 
and,  having  helped  Renson  to  reach  a  sleeping-place, 
scattered  to  the  bachelor  quarters  that  had  been 
found  for  us  and  lay  down  for  the  few  hours  that 


2ONE  POLICEMAN  88  81 

remained  before  the  5:51  should  carry  us  back  to 
Empire. 

At  last  I  had  crossed  all  the  Isthmus  and  heard 
the  wash  of  the  Caribbean  at  my  feet.  It  was  the 
Sunday  following  our  Gatun  days,  and  nearly  a  month 
since  my  landing  on  the  Zone.  The  morning  train 
from  Empire  left  me  at  the  lake-side  city  for  a  run 
over  locks  and  dam  which  the  working  days  had  not 
allowed,  and  there  being  no  other  train  for  hours  I 
set  off  along  the  railroad  to  walk  the  seven  miles  to 
Colon.  On  either  side  lay  hot,  rampant  jungle,  low 
and  almost  swampy.  It  was  noon  when  I  reached  the 
broad  railroad  yards  and  Zone  storehouses  of  Mt. 
Hope  and  turned  aside  to  Cristobal  hotel. 

Cristobal  is  built  on  the  very  fringe  of  the  ocean 
with  the  roll  of  waves  at  the  very  edge  of  its  win- 
dows, and  a  far-reaching  view  of  the  Caribbean  where 
the  ceaseless  Zone  breeze  is  born.  There  stands  the 
famous  statue  of  Columbus  protecting  the  Indian 
maid,  crude  humor  in  bronze ;  for  Columbus  brought 
Indian  maids  anything  but  protection.  Near  at  hand 
in  the  joyous  tropical  sunshine  lay  a  great  steamer 
that  in  another  week  would  be  back  in  New  York 
tying  up  in  sleet  and  ice.  A  western  bronco  and  a 
lariat  might  perhaps  have  dragged  me  on  board,  with 
a  struggle. 

There  is  no  more  line  of  demarkation  between  Cris- 
tobal and  Colon  than  between  Ancon  and  Panama. 
A  khaki-clad  Zone  policeman  patrols  one  sidewalk, 


82  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

a  black  one  in  the  sweltering  dark  blue  uniform  find 
heavy  wintry  helmet  of  the  Republic  of  Panama 
lounges  on  the  other  side  of  a  certain  street;  on  one 
side  are  the  "  enumerated  "  tags  of  the  census,  on  the 
other  none.  Cross  the  street  and  you  feel  at  once  a 
foreigner.  It  is  distinctly  unlawful  to  sell  liquor  on 
Sunday  or  to  gamble  at  any  time  on  the  Canal  Zone ; 
it  is  therefore  with  something  approaching  a  shock 
that  one  finds  everything  "  wide  open  "  and  raging 
just  across  the  street. 

/"  I  wandered  out  past  "  Highball's "  merry-go- 
round,  where  huge  negro  bucks  were  laughing  and 
playing  and  riding  away  their  month's  pay  on  the 
wooden  horses  like  the  children  they  are,  and  so  on 
to  the  edge  of  the  sea.  Unlike  Panama,  Colon  is  flat 
and  square-blocked,  as  it  is  considerably  darker  in 
complexion  with  its  large  mixture  of  negroes  from  the 
Caribbean  shores  and  islands.  Uncle  Sam  seems  to 
have  taken  the  city's  fine  beach  away  from  her.  But 
then,  she  probably  never  took  any  other  advantage 
of  it  than  to  turn  it  into  a  garbage  heap  as  bad  as 
once  was  Bottle  Alley.  On  one  end  is  a  cement  swim- 
ming pool  with  the  announcement,  "  Only  for  gold 
employees  of  the  I.  C.  C.  or  P.  R.  R.  and  guests  of 
Washington  Hotel."  It  is  merely  a  softer  way  of 
saying,  "  Only  white  Americans  with  money  can 
bathe  here." 

Then  beyond  are  the  great  hospitals,  second  only 
to  those  of  Ancon,  the  "  white  "  wards  built  out  over 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  85 

the  sea,  and  behind  them  the  "  black  "  where  the  ne- 
groes must  be  content  with  second-hand  breezes. 
Some  of  the  costs  of  the  canal  are  here, —  sturdy 
black  men  in  a  sort  of  bed-tick  pajamas  sitting  on  the 
verandas  or  in  wheel  chairs,  some  with  one  leg  gone, 
some  with  both.  One  could  not  but  wonder  how  it 
feels  to  be  hopelessly  ruined  in  body  early  in  life  for 
helping  to  dig  a  ditch  for  a  foreign  power  that,  how- 
ever well  it  may  treat  you  materially,  cares  not  a 
whistle-blast  more  for  you  than  for  its  old  worn-out 
locomotives  rusting  away  in  the  jungle. 

Under  the  beautiful  royal  palms  beyond,  all  bent 
inland  in  the  constant  breeze  are  park  benches  where 
one  can  sit  with  the  Atlantic  spreading  away  to  in- 
finity before,  breaking  with  its  ages-old,  mysterious 
roll  on  the  shore  just  as  it  did  before  the  European's 
white  sails  first  broke  the  gleaming  skyline.  Out  to 
sea  runs  the  growing  breakwater  from  Toro  Point, 
the  great  wireless  tower,  yet  just  across  the  bay  on 
a  little  jutting,  dense-grown  tongue  of  land  is  the 
jungle  hut  of  a  jungle  family  as  utterly  untouched 
by  civilization  as  was  the  verdant  valley  of  Typee  on 
the  day  Melville  and  Toby  came  stumbling  down  into 
it  from  the  hills  above. 

But  meanwhile  I  was  not  getting  the  long  hours 
of  unbroken  sleep  the  heavy  mental  toil  of  enumer- 
ation requires.  Free  government  bachelor  quarters 
makes  strange  bed- fellows  —  or  at  least  room-fellows. 
Quartermasters,  like  justice,  are  hopelessly  blind  or  I 


86  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

might  have  been  assigned  quarters  upon  the  financial 
knoll  where  habits  and  hours  were  a  bit  more  in  keep- 
ing with  my  own.  But  a  bachelor  is  a  bachelor  on 
the  Zone,  and  though  he  be  clerk  to  his  highness  "  the 
Colonel  "  himself  he  may  find  himself  carelessly  tossed 
into  a  "  rough-neck  "  brotherhood. 

House  47  was  distinctly  an  abode  of  "  rough- 
necks." A  "  rough-neck,"  it  may  be  essential  to  ex- 
plain to  those  who  never  ate  at  the  same  table  with 
one,  is  a  bull-necked,  whole-hearted,  hard-headed, 
cast-iron  fellow  who  can  ride  the  beam  of  a  snorting, 
rock-tearing  steam-shovel  all  day,  wrestle  the  night 
through  with  various  starred  Hennessey  and  its 
rivals,  and  continue  that  round  indefinitely  without 
once  failing  to  turn  up  to  straddle  his  beam  in  the 
morning.  He  seems  to  have  been  created  without  the 
insertion  of  nerves,  though  he  is  never  lacking  in 
"  nerve."  He  is  a  fine  fellow  in  his  way,  but  you 
sometimes  wish  his  way  branched  off  from  yours  for 
a  few  hours,  when  bed-time  or  a  mood  for  quiet  mus- 
ing comes.  He  is  a  man  you  are  glad  to  meet  in  a 
saloon  —  if  you  are  in  a  mood  to  be  there  —  or  tear- 
ing away  at  the  cliffs  of  Culebra ;  but  there  are  other 
places  where  he  does  not  seem  exactly  to  fit  into  the 
landscape. 

House  47,  I  say,  was  a  house  of  "  rough-necks." 
That  fact  became  particularly  evident  soon  after  sup- 
per, when  the  seven  phonographs  were  striking  up 
their  seven  kinds  of  ragtime  on  seven  sides  of  us ;  and 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  87 

it  was  the  small  hours  before  the  poker  games,  car- 
ried on  in  much  the  same  spirit  as  Comanche  warfare, 
broke  up  through  all  the  house.  Then,  too,  many 
a  "  rough-neck  "  is  far  from  silent  even  after  he  has 
fallen  asleep ;  and  about  the  time  complete  quiet 
seemed  to  be  settling  down  it  was  four-thirty;  and  a 
jarring  chorus  of  alarm-clocks  wrought  new  up- 
heaval. 

Then  there  was  each  individual  annoyance.  Let 
me  barely  mention  two  or  three.  Of  my  room-mates, 
"  Mitch  "  had  sat  at  a  locomotive  throttle  fourteen 
years  in  the  States  and  Mexico,  besides  the  four  years 
he  had  been  hauling  dirt  out  of  the  "  cut."  Youth- 
ful ambition  "  Mitch  "  had  left  behind,  for  though  he 
could  still  look  forward  to  forty,  railroad  rules  had  so 
changed  in  the  States  during  his  absence  that  he 
would  have  had  to  learn  his  trade  over  again  to  be 
able  to  "  run  "  there.  Moreover  four  years  on  the 
Zone  does  not  make  a  man  look  forward  with  pleasure 
to  a  States  winter.  So  "  Mitch,"  like  many  another 
"  Zoner,"  was  planning  to  buy  with  the  savings  of 
his  $210  a  month  "  when  the  job  is  done  "  a  chunk  of 
land  on  some  sunny  slope  of  a  southern  state  and 
settle  down  for  an  easy  descent  through  old  age. 
There  was  nothing  objectionable  about  "  Mitch  " — 
except  perhaps  his  preference  for  late-hour  poker. 
But  he  had  a  way  of  stopping  with  one  leg  out  of  his 
trousers  when  at  last  all  the  house  had  calmed  down 
and  cots  were  ceasing  to  creak,  to  make  some  such 


88  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

wholly  irrelevant  remark  as ;     "  By ,  that 

despatcher  give  me  609  to-day  and  she  would  n't  pull 
a  greased  string  out  of  a  knot-hole  " —  and  thereby 
always  hung  a  tale  that  was  sure  to  range  over  half 
the  track  mileage  of  the  States  and  wander  off  some- 
where into  the  sandy  cactus  wilderness  of  Chihuahua 
at  least  before  "  Mitch  "  succeeded  in  getting  out  of 
the  other  trouser  leg. 

The  cot  directly  across  from  my  own  groaned  — 
occasionally  —  under  the  coarse-grained  bulk  of 
Tom.  Tom  was  a  "  rough-neck  "  par  excellence,  so 
much  so  that  even  in  a  houseful  of  them  he  was  known 
as  "  Tom  the  Rough-neck,"  which  to  Tom  was  high 
tribute.  Some  preferred  to  call  him  "  Tom  the 
Noisy."  He  was  built  like  a  steam  caisson,  or  an 
oil-barrel,  though  without  fat,  with  a  neck  that 
reminded  you  of  a  Miura  bull  with  his  head  down 
just  before  the  estoque;  and  when  he  neglected  to 
button  his  undershirt  —  a  not  infrequent  oversight 
—  he  displayed  the  hairy  chest  of  a  mammoth  go- 
rilla. 

Tom's  philosophy  of  getting  through  life  was 
exactly  the  same  as  his  philosophy  of  getting  through 
a  rocky  hillside  with  his  steam-shovel.  When  it 
came  to  argument  Tom  was  invariably  right ;  not  that 
he  was  over-supplied  with  logic,  but  because  he  pos- 
sessed a  voice  and  the  bellows  to  work  it  that  could 
rise  to  the  roar  of  his  own  steam-shovel  on  those  weeks 
when  he  chose  to  enter  the  shovel  competition,  and 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  91 

would  have  utterly  overthrown,  drowned  out,  and  an- 
nihilated James  Stewart  Mill  himself. 

Tom  always  should  have  had  money,  for  your 
"  rough-neck "  on  the  Zone  has  decidedly  the 
advantage  over  the  white-collared  college  graduate 
when  the  pay-car  comes  around.  But  of  course  be- 
ing a  genuine  "  rough-neck  "  Tom  was  always  deep  in 
debt,  except  on  the  three  days  after  pay-day,  when 
he  was  rolling  in  wealth. 

Once  I  fancied  the  bulk  of  my  troubles  was  over. 
Tom  disappeared,  leaving  not  a  trace  behind  —  ex- 
cept his  working-clothes  tumbled  on  and  about  his 
cot.  Then  it  turned  out  that  he  was  not  dead,  but  in 
Ancon  hospital  taking  the  Keeley  cure ;  and  one  sum- 
mer evening  he  blew  in  again,  his  "  cure  "  effected  — 
with  a  bottle  in  his  coat  pocket  and  two  inside  his  vest. 
So  the  next  day  there  was  Tom  celebrating  his  re- 
covery all  over  House  47  and  when  next  morning  he 
did  finally  go  back  to  his  shovel  there  were  scattered 
about  the  room  six  empty  quart  bottles  each  labeled 
"  whiskey."  Luckily  Tom  ran  a  shovel  instead  of  a 
passenger  train  and  could  claw  away  at  his  hillside 
as  savagely  as  he  chose  without  any  danger  whatever, 
beyond  that  of  killing  himself  or  an  odd  "  nigger  " 
or  two. 

We  had  other  treasures  on  exhibition  in  47.  There 
was  "  Shorty,"  for  instance.  "  Shorty  "  was  a  jolly, 
ugly  open-handed,  four-eyed  little  snipe  of  a  rough- 
neck machinist  who  had  lost  "  in  the  line  of  duty  " 


92  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

two  fingers  highly  useful  in  his  trade.  In  conse- 
quence he  was  now,  after  the  generous  fashion  of  the 
I.  C.  C.,  on  full  pay  for  a  year  without  work,  pro- 
viding he  did  not  leave  the  Zone.  And  while 
"  Shorty,"  like  the  great  majority  of  us,  was  a  very 
tolerable  member  of  society  under  the  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances of  having  to  earn  his  "  three  squares  a 
day,"  paid  leisure  hung  most  ponderously  upon  him. 

The  amusements  in  Empire  are  few  —  and  not 
especially  amusing.  There  is  really  only  one  un- 
failing one.  That  is  slid  in  glass  receptacles  across 
a  yellow  varnished  counter  down  on  Railroad  Avenue 
opposite  Empire  Machine  Shops.  So  it  happened 
that  "  Shorty  "  was  gradually  winning  the  title  of  a 
thirty-third  degree  "  booze-fighter,"  and  passengers 
on  any  afternoon  train  who  took  the  trouble  to  glance 
in  at  a  wide-open  door  just  Atlantic- ward  of  the  sta- 
tion might  have  beheld  him  with  his  back  to  the  track 
and  one  foot  slightly  raised  and  resting  lightly  and 
with  the  nonchalance  of  long  practice  on  a  gas-pipe 
that  had  missed  its  legitimate  mission.  In  fact 
"  Shorty  "  had  come  to  that  point  where  he  would 
rather  be  caught  in  church  than  found  dead  without  a 
bottle  on  him,  and  arriving  home  overflowing  with  joy 
about  midnight  slept  away  most  of  the  day  in  47  that 
he  might  spend  as  much  of  the  night  as  the  early  clos- 
ing laws  of  the  Zone  permitted  at  the  amusement 
headquarters  of  Empire. 

With  these  few  hints  of  the  life  that  raged  be- 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  93 

neath  the  roof  of  47  it  may  perhaps  be  comprehen- 
sible, without  going  into  detail,  why  I  came  to  con- 
template a  change  of  quarters.  I  detest  a  kicker.  I 
have  small  use  for  any  but  the  man  who  will  take  his 
allotted  share  with  the  rest  of  the  world  without 
either  whining  or  snarling.  Yet  when  an  official  gov- 
ernment census  enumerator  falls  asleep  on  the  edge 
of  a  tenement  washtub  with  a  question  dead  on  his 
lips,  or  solemnly  sets  down  a  crow-black  Jamaican  as 
"  white,"  it  is  Uncle  Sam  who  is  suffering  and  time 
for  correction. 

But  it  is  one  thing  for  a  Canal  Zone  employee  to 
resolve  to  move,  and  quite  another  to  carry  out  that 
resolution.  Nero  was  a  meek,  unassertive,  submis- 
sive, tractable  little  chap,  keenly  sensible  to  the  suf- 
ferings of  his  fellows,  compared  with  a  Zone  quarter- 
master. So  the  first  time  I  ventured  to  push  open 
the  screen  door  next  to  the  post  office  I  was  grateful 
to  escape  unmaimed.  But  at  last,  when  I  had  done 
a  whole  month's  penance  in  47,  I  resorted  to  strategy. 
On  March  first  I  entered  the  dreaded  precinct  shielded 
behind  "  the  boss  "  with  his  contagious  smile,  and  the 
musical  quartermaster  of  Empire  was  overthrown  and 
defeated,  and  I  marched  forth  clutching  in  one  hand 
a  new  "  assignment  to  quarters." 

That  night  I  moved.  The  new,  or  more  properly 
the  older,  room  was  in  House  35,  a  one-story  building 
of  the  old  French  type,  many  of  which  the  Ameri- 
cans revamped  upon  taking  possession  of  the 


94  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

Isthmian  junk-heap,  across  and  a  bit  down  the  grav- 
eled street.  It  was  a  single  room,  with  no  room- 
mate to  question,  which  I  might  decorate  and  other- 
wise embellish  according  to  my  own  personal 
idiosyncrasies.  At  the  back,  with  a  door  between, 
dwelt  the  superintendent  of  the  Zone  telephone  sys- 
tem, with  a  convenient  instrument  on  his  table.  In 
short,  fortune  seemed  at  last  to  be  grinning  broadly 
upon  me. 

But  —  the  sequel.  I  hate  to  mention  it.  I  won't. 
It 's  absurdly  commonplace.  Commonplace  ?  Not  a 
bit  of  it.  He  was  a  champion,  an  artist  in  his  spe- 
cialty. How  can  I  have  used  that  word  in  connec- 
tion with  his  incomparable  performance?  Or  at- 
tempt to  give  a  hint  of  life  on  the  Canal  Zone  with- 
out mentioning  the  most  conspicuous  factor  in  it? 

He  lived  in  the  next  room  south,  a  half-inch  wooden 
partition  reaching  half-way  to  the  ceiling  between 
his  pillow  and  mine.  By  day  he  lay  on  his  back  in 
the  right  hand  seat  of  a  locomotive  cab  with  his  hand 
on  the  throttle  and  the  soles  of  his  shoes  on  the  boiler 
plate  —  he  was  just  long  enough  to  fit  into  that 
position  without  wrinkling.  During  the  early  even- 
ing he  lay  on  his  back  in  a  stout  Mission  rocking- 
chair  on  the  front  porch  of  House  35,  Empire,  C.  Z. 
And  about  8  P.  M.  daily  he  retired  within  to  lie  on 
his  back  on  a  regulation  I.  C.  C.  metal  cot  —  they 
are  stoutly  built  —  one  pine  half-inch  from  my  own. 
Obviously  twenty-four  hours  a  day  of  such  onerous 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  95 

occupation  had  left  some  slight  effects  on  his  figure. 
His  shape  was  strikingly  similar  to  that  of  a  push- 
ball. Had  he  fallen  down  at  the  top  of  Ahcon  or 
Balboa  hill  it  would  have  been  an  even  bet  whether 
he  would  have  rolled  down  sidewise  or  endwise  —  if 
his  general  type  of  build  and  specifications  will  per- 
mit any  such  distinction. 

When  I  first  came  upon  him,  reposing  serenely  in 
the  porch  rocking-chair  on  the  cushion  that  uphol- 
stered his  spinal  column,  I  was  pleased.  Clearly  he 
was  no  "  rough-neck  " — he  could  n't  have  been  and 
kept  his  figure.  There  was  no  question  but  that  he 
was  perfectly  harmless ;  his  stories  ought  to  prove 
cheerful  and  laugh-provoking  and  kindly.  His  very 
presence  seemed  to  promise  to  raise  several  degrees 
the  merriment  in  that  corner  of  House  35. 

It  did.  Toward  eight,  as  I  have  hinted,  he  trans- 
ferred from  rocking-chair  to  cot.  He  was  not  af- 
flicted with  troublesome  nerves.  At  times  he  was  an 
entire  minute  in  falling  asleep.  Usually,  however, 
his  time  was  something  under  the  half;  and  he  slept 
with  the  innocent,  undisturbed  sleep  of  a  babe  for  at 
least  twelve  unbroken  hours,  unless  the  necessity  of 
getting  across  the  "  cut  "  to  his  engine  absolutely 
prohibited.  Just  there  was  the  trouble.  His  first 
gentle,  slumberous  breath  sounded  like  a  small  boy 
sliding  down  the  sheet-iron  roof  of  35.  His  second 
resembled  a  force  of  carpenters  tearing  out  the  half- 
grown  partitions.  His  third  —  but  mere  words  are 


96  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

an  absurdity.  At  times  the  noises  from  his  gorilla- 
like  throat  softened  down  till  one  merely  fancied 
himself  in  the  hog-corral  of  a  Chicago  stockyards ; 
at  others  we  prayed  that  we  might  at  once  be  trans- 
ferred there.  A  thousand  times  during  the  night 
we  were  certain  he  was  on  the  very  point  of  choking 
to  death,  and  sat  up  in  bed  praying  he  would  n't, 
and  offering  our  month's  salary  to  charity  if  he 
would ;  and  through  all  our  fatiguing  anguish  he 
snorted  undisturbedly  on.  In  House  35  he  was 
known  as  "  the  Sloth."  It  was  a  gentle  and  kindly 
title. 

There  were  a  few  inexperienced  inmates  who  had 
not  yet  utterly  given  up  hope.  The  long  hours  of 
the  night  were  spent  in  solemn  conference.  Pound- 
ing on  the  walls  with  hammers,  chairs,  and  shoe-heels 
was  like  singing  a  lullaby.  One  genius  invented  a 
species  of  foghorn  which  proved  very  effective  —  in 
waking  up  all  Empire  east  of  the  tracks,  except  "  the 
Sloth."  Some  took  to  dropping  their  heavier  and 
more  dispensable  possessions  over  the  partition.  One 
memorable  night  a  fellow-sufferer  cast  over  a  young 
dry-goods  box  which,  bouncing  from  the  snorer's 
figure  to  the  floor,  caused  him  to  lose  a  beat  —  one ; 
and  the  feat  is  still  one  of  the  proud  memories  of  35. 
On  Sundays  when  all  the  rest  of  the  world  was  up  and 
shaved  and  breakfasted  and  off  on  the  8 :39  of  a  bril- 
liant, sunny  day  to  Panama,  "  the  Sloth  "  would  be 
still  imperturbably  snorting  and  choking  in  the 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  97 

depths  of  his  cot.  And  in  the  evening,  as  the  train 
roamed  back  through  the  fresh  cool  jungle  dusk 
and  deposited  us  at  Empire  station,  and  we  crossed 
the  wooden  bridge  before  the  hotel  and  began  to 
climb  the  graveled  path  behind,  hoping  against  hope 
that  we  might  find  crape  on  that  door,  from  the 
night  ahead  would  break  on  our  ears  a  sound  as  of 
a  hippopotamus  struggling  wildly  against  going 
down  for  the  third  and  last  time. 

Most  annoying  of  all,  "  the  Sloth  "  was  not  even 
a  bona  fide  bachelor.  He  proudly  announced  that, 
though  he  was  a  model  of  marital  virtue,  he  had  not 
lived  with  his  wife  in  many  years.  I  never  heard 
a  man  who  knew  him  by  night  ask  why.  It  was 
close  upon  criminal  negligence  on  the  part  of  the 
I.  C.  C.  to  overlook  its  opportunity  in  this  matter. 
There  were  so  many,  many  uninhabited  hilltops  on 
the  Zone  where  a  private  Sloth-dwelling  might  have 
been  slapped  together  from  the  remains  of  falling 
towns  at  Gatun  end;  near  it  a  grandstand  might 
even  have  been  erected  and  admission  charged.  Or 
at  least  the  daily  climb  to  it  would  have  helped  to 
reduce  a  push-ball  figure,  and  thereby  have  improved 
the  general  appearance  of  the  Canal  Zone  force. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ONE  morning  early  in  March  "  the  boss  "  and 
I  crossed  the  suspension  bridge  over  the 
canal.  A  handcar  and  six  husky  negroes  awaited 
us,  and  we  were  soon  bumping  away  over  temporary 
spurs  through  the  jungle,  to  strike  at  length*  the 
"  relocation  "  opposite  the  giant  tree  near  Bas  Obispo 
that  marked  the  northern  limit  of  our  district. 

The  P.  R.  R.,  you  will  recall,  has  been  operating 
across  the  Isthmus  since  1855.  When  the  United 
States  took  over  the  Zone  in  1904  it  built  a  new 
double-tracked  line  of  five-foot  gauge  for  nearly  the 
whole  forty-seven  miles.  Much  of  this,  however,  runs 
through  territory  soon  to  be  covered  by  Gatun  Lake, 
nearly  all  the  rest  of  it  is  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
canal.  An  almost  entirely  new  line,  therefore,  is 
being  built  through  the  virgin  jungle  on  the  South 
American  side  of  the  canal,  which  is  to  be  the  perma- 
nent line  and  is  known  in  Zone  parlance  as  the  "  re- 
location." This  is  forty-nine  miles  in  length  from 
Panama  to  Colon,  and  is  single  track  only,  as  freight 
traffic  especially  is  expected,  very  naturally,  to  be 
lighter  after  the  canal  is  opened.  Already  that  por- 
tion from  the  Chagres  to  the  Atlantic  had  been  put 

98 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  99 

in  use  —  on  February  fifteenth,  to  be  exact ;  and  the 
time  was  not  far  off  when  the  section  within  our  dis- 
trict —  from  Gamboa  to  Pedro  Miguel  —  would 
also  be  in  operation. 

That  portion  runs  through  the  wilderness  a  mile 
or  more  back  from  the  canal,  through  jungled  hills 
so  dense  with  vegetation  one  could  only  make  one's 
way  through  it  with  the  ubiquitous  machete  of  the 
native  jungle-dweller,  except  where  tiny  trails  appear 
that  lead  to  squatters'  thatched  huts  thrown  to- 
gether of  tin,  dynamite  and  dry-goods  boxes  and 
jungle  reeds  in  little  scattered  patches  of  clearing. 
Some  of  these  hills  have  been  cut  half  away  for  the 
new  line  —  great  generous  "  cuts,"  for  to  the  giant 
90-ton  steam-shovels  a  few  hundred  cubic  yards  of 
earth  more  or  less  is  of  slight  importance.  All  else 
is  virtually  impenetrable  jungle.  Travelers  by  rail 
across  the  Isthmus,  as  no  doubt  many  ships'  pas- 
sengers will  be  in  the  years  to  come  while  their 
steamer  is  being  slowly  raised  and  lowered  to  and 
from  the  eighty-five-foot  lake,  will  see  little  of  the 
canal, —  a  glimpse  of  the  Bas  Obispo  "  cut "  at 
Gamboa  and  little  else  from  the  time  they  leave 
Gatun  till  they  return  to  the  present  line  at  Pedro 
Miguel  station.  But  in  compensation  they  will  see 
some  wondrous  jungle  scenery, —  a  tangled  tropical 
wilderness  with  great  masses  of  bush  flowers  of  bril- 
liant hues,  gigantic  ferns,  countless  palm  and 
banana  trees,  wonderfully  slender  arrow-straight 


100  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

trees  rising  smooth  and  branchless  more  than  a  hun- 
dred feet  to  end  in  an  immense  bouquet  of  brilliant 
purplish-hue  blossoms. 

"  The  boss "  barely  noticed  these  things.  One 
quickly  grows  accustomed  to  them.  Why,  Americans 
who  have  been  down  on  the  Zone  for  a  year  don't  know 
there 's  a  palm-tree  on  the  Isthmus  —  or  at  least 
they  do  not  remember  there  were  no  palm-trees  in 
Keokuk,  Iowa,  when  they  left  there. 

Along  this  new-graveled  line,  still  unused  except 
by  work-trains,  we  rode  in  our  six  negro-power  car, 
dropping  off  in  the  gravel  each  time  we  caught  sight 
of  any  species  of  human  being.  Every  little  way 
was  a  gang,  averaging  some  thirty  men,  distinct  in 
nationality, —  Antiguans  shoveling  gravel,  Mar- 
tiniques  snarling  and  quarreling  as  they  wallowed 
thigh-deep  in  swamps  and  pools,  a  company  of 
Greeks  unloading  train-loads  of  ties,  Spaniards 
leisurely  but  steadily  grading  and  surfacing,  track 
bands  of  "  Spigoties "  chopping  away  the  aggres- 
sive jungle  with  their  machetes  —  the  one  task  at 
which  the  native  Panamanian  (or  Colombian,  as 
many  still  call  themselves)  is  worth  his  brass-check. 
Every  here  and  there  we  caught  labor's  odds  and 
ends,  diminutive  "  water-boys,"  likewise  of  varying 
nationality,  a  negro  switch-boy  dozing  under  the 
bit  of  shelter  he  had  rigged  up  of  jungle  ferns, 
frightening  many  a  black  laborer  speechless  as  we 
pounced  upon  him  emerging  from  his  "  soldiering  " 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  101 

in  the  jungle;  occasionally  even  a  native  bushman  on 
his  way  to  market  from  his  palm-thatched  home  gen- 
erations old  back  in  the  bush,  who  has  scarcely  no- 
ticed yet  that  the  canal  is  being  dug,  fell  into  our 
hands  and  was  inexorably  set  down  in  spite  of  all 
protest  unless  he  could  prove  beyond  question  that 
he  had  already  been  "  taken  "  or  lived  beyond  the 
Zone  line. 

Thus  we  scribbled  incessantly  on,  even  through  the 
noon  hour,  dragging  gangs  one  by  one  away  from 
their  tasks,  shaking  laborers  out  of  the  brief  after- 
lunch  siesta  in  a  patch  of  shade.  "  The  boss  "  was 
hampered  by  having  only  two  languages  where  ten 
were  needed.  In  the  early  afternoon  he  went  on  to 
Paraiso  to  feed  himself  and  the  traction  power,  while 
I  held  the  fort.  Soon  after  rain  fell,  a  sort  of  ad- 
vance agent  of  the  rainy  season,  a  sudden  tropical 
downpour  that  ran  in  rivulets  down  across  the  pink 
card-boards  and  my  victims.  Yet  strange  to  note, 
the  writing  of  the  medium  soft  pencil  remained  as 
clear  and  unsmudged  as  in  the  driest  weather,  and 
so  clean  a  rain  was  it  that  it  did  not  even  soil  my 
white  cotton  shirt.  I  continued  unheeding,  only  to 
note  with  surprise  a  few  minutes  later  that  the  sun 
was  shining  on  the  dense  green  jungle  about  me  as 
brilliantly  as  ever  and  that  I  was  dry  again  as  when 
I  had  set  out  in  the  morning. 

"  The  boss  "  returned,  and  when  I  had  eaten  the 
crackers  and  the  bottle  of  pink  lemonade  he  brought, 


102  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

we  pushed  on  toward  the  Pacific.  Till  at  length  in 
mid-afternoon  we  came  to  the  top  of  the  descent  to 
Pedro  Miguel  and  knew  that  the  end  of  our  district 
was  at  hand.  So  powerful  was  the  breeze  from  the 
Atlantic  that  our  six  man-power  engine  sweated  pro- 
fusely as  they  toiled  against  it,  even  on  the  down- 
grade of  the  return  to  Empire. 

To  "  Scotty  "  had  been  assigned  my  Empire  "  re- 
calls "  and  I  had  been  given  a  new  and  virgin  terri- 
tory,—  namely,  the  town  of  Paraiso.  It  lies  "  some- 
what back  from  the  village  street,"  that  is,  the  P. 
R.  R.  Indeed,  trains  do  not  deign  to  notice  its 
existence  except  on  Sundays.  But  there  is  the 
temporary  bridge  over  the  canal  which  few  engineers 
venture  to  "  snake  her  across"  at  any  great  speed, 
and  the  enumerator  housed  in  Empire  need  not  even 
be  a  graduate  "  hobo  "  to  be  able  to  drop  off  there 
a  bit  after  seven  in  the  morning  and  prance  away 
up  the  chamois  path  into  the  town. 

Wherever  on  the  Zone  you  espy  a  town  of  two- 
story  skeleton  screened  buildings  scattered  over  hills, 
with  winding  gravel  roads  and  trees  and  flowers  be- 
tween there  you  may  be  sure  live  American  "  gold  " 
employees.  Yet  somehow  the  Canal  Commission  had 
dodged  the  monotony  you  expected,  somehow  they 
have  broken  up  the  grim  lines  that  make  so  dismal 
the  best-intentioned  factory  town.  There  are  hints 
that  the  builders  have  heard  somewhere  of  the  science 
of  landscape  gardening.  At  times  these  same  houses 


"Toward  noon  the  labor-train  screamed  in 


Laborers  hurrying  to  the  mess-hall 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  105 

^  ~7^X\  N 

are  deceiving,  for  all  I.  C.  C.  buildings  bear  a  strong 

family  resemblance,  and  it  is  only  at  the  door  that 
you  know  whether  it  is  bachelors'  quarters,  a  family 
residence,  or  the  supreme  court. 

From  the  outside  world  "  P'reeso  "  scarcely  draws 
a  glance  of  attention ;  but  once  in  it  you  find  a  whole 
Zone  town  with  all  the  accustomed  paraphernalia  of 
I.  C.  C.  hotel  and  commissary,  hospital  and  police 
station,  all  ruled  over  and  held  in  check  by  the 
famous  "  Colonel  "  in  command  of  the  latter.  More- 
over Paraiso  will  some  day  come  again  into  her  own, 
when  the  "  relocation  "  opens  and  brings  her  back 
on  the  main  line,  while  proud  Culebra  and  haughty 
Empire,  stranded  on  a  railless  shore  of  the  canal, 
will  wither  and  waste  away  and  even  their  broad 
macadamed  roads  will  sink  beneath  a  second-growth 
jungle. 

Renson  had  come  to  lend  assistance.  He  set  to 
work  among  the  negro  cabins,  the  upper  gallery 
seats  of  Paraiso's  amphitheater  of  hills,  for  Renson 
had  been  a  free  agent  for  more  than  a  month  now 
and  was  not  exactly  in  a  condition  to  interview  Amer- 
ican housewives.  My  own  task  began  down  at  the 
row  of  inhabited  box-cars,  and  so  on  through  shacks 
and  tenements  with  many  Spanish  laborers'  wives, 
Then  toward  noon  the  labor-train  screamed  in,  with 
two  "  gold  "  coaches  and  many  open  cattle-cars  with 
long  benches  jammed  with  sweaty  workmen,  easily 
six  hundred  men  in  the  six  cars,  who  swept  in  upon 


106  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

the  town  like  a  flood  through  a  suddenly  opened 
sluiceway  as  the  train  barely  paused  and  shrieked 
away  again. 

Renson  and  I  dashed  for  the  laborers'  mess-halls, 
where  hundreds  of  sun-bronzed  foreigners,  divided 
only  as  to  color,  packed  pell-mell  around  a  score 
of  wooden  tables  heavily  stocked  with  rough  and 
tumble  food  —  yet  so  different  from  the  old  French 
catch  as  catch  can  days  when  each  man  owned  his 
black  pot  and  toiled  all  through  the  noon-hour  to 
cook  himself  an  unsanitary  lunch.  We  jotted  them 
down  at  express  speed,  with  changes  of  tongue  so 
abrupt  that  our  heads  were  soon  reeling,  and  in  the 
place  where  our  minds  should  have  been  sounded 
only  a  confused  chaotic  uproar  like  a  wrangling  with- 
in the  covers  of  a  polyglot  dictionary.  Then  sud- 
denly I  landed  a  Russian !  It  was  the  final  straw. 
I  like  to  speak  Spanish,  I  can  endure  the  creaking 
of  Turks  attempting  to  talk  Italian,  I  can  bend  an 
ear  to  the  excruciating  "  French "  of  Martinique 
negroes,  I  have  boldly  faced  sputtering  Arabs,  but 
I  will  not  run  the  risk  of  talking  Russian.  It  was 
the  second  and  last  case  during  my  census  days  when 
I  was  forced  to  call  for  interpretative  assistance. 

At  best  we  caught  only  a  small  percentage  at  each 
table  before  the  crowd  had  wolfed  and  melted  away. 
An  odd  half-dozen  more,  perhaps,  we  found  stretched 
out  in  the  shade  under  the  mess-hall  and  neighbor- 
ing quarters  before  the  imperative  screech  of  the 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  107 

labor-train  whistle  ended  a  scene  that  must  be  sev- 
eral times  repeated,  and  now  left  us  silent  and  alone, 
to  wander  wet  and  weary  to  the  nearest  white  bach- 
elor quarters,  there  to  lie  on  our  backs  an  hour  or 
more  till  the  polyglot  jumble  of  words  in  the  back  of 
our  heads  had  each  climbed  again  to  its  proper  shelf. 
Speaking  of  white  bachelor  quarters,  therein  lay 
the  enumerator's  greatest  problem.  The  Spaniard 
or  the  Jamaican  is  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  fluently 
familiar  with  his  companion's  antecedents  and  pedi- 
gree. He  can  generally  furnish  all  the  informa- 
tion the  census  department  calls  for.  But  it  is 
quite  otherwise  with  the  American  bachelor.  He 
may  know  his  room-mate  's  exact  degree  of  skill  at 
poker,  he  probably  knows  his  private  opinion  of  "  the 
Colonel,"  he  is  sure  to  know  his  degree  of  enmity  to 
the  prohibition  movement ;  but  he  is  not  at  all  certain 
to  know  his  name  and  rarely  indeed  has  he  the  shadow 
of  a  notion  when  and  in  what  particular  corner  of 
the  States  he  began  the  game  of  existence.  So  loose 
are  ties  down  on  the  Zone  that  a  man  's  room-mate 
might  go  off  into  the  jungle  and  die  and  the  former 
not  dream  of  inquiring  for  him  for  a  week.  Espe- 
cially we  world-wanderers,  as  are  a  large  percentage 
of  "  Zoners,"  with  virtually  no  fixed  roots  in  any 
soil,  floating  wherever  the  job  suggests  or  the  spirit 
moves,  have  the  facts  of  our  past  in  our  own  heads 
only.  No  wanderer  of  experience  would  dream  of 
asking  his  fellow  where  he  came  from.  The  answer 


108  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

would  be  too  apt  to  be,  "  from  the  last  place."  So 
difficult  did  this  matter  become  that  I  gave  up  rush- 
ing for  the  bus  to  Pedro  Miguel  each  evening  and 
the  even  more  distressing  necessity  of  catching  that 
premature  6:30  train  each  morning  in  Empire  and, 
packing  a  sheet  and  pillow  and  tooth-brush,  moved 
down  to  Paraiso  that  I  might  spend  the  first  half 
of  the  night  in  quest  of  these  elusive  bits  of  bachelor 
information. 

Meanwhile  the  enrolling  by  day  continued  un- 
abated. I  had  my  first  experience  enumerating 
"  gold  "  married  quarters  —  white  American  fami- 
lies; just  enough  for  experience  and  not  enough  to 
suffer  severely.  The  enrolling  of  West  Indians  was 
pleasanter.  The  wives  of  locomotive  engineers  and 
steam-shovel  cranemen  were  not  infrequently  super- 
cilious ladies  who  resented  being  disturbed  during 
their  "  social  functions  "  and  lacked  the  training  in 
politeness  of  Jamaican  "  mammies."  Living  in 
Paradise  now  under  a  paternal  all-providing  govern- 
ment, they  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  rolling-pin 
days  of  the  past. 

It  was  here  in  Paraiso  that  I  first  encountered 
that  strange,  that  wondrous  strange  custom  of  ly- 
ing about  one's  age.  Negro  women  never  did. 
What  more  absurd,  uncalled-for  piece  of  dishonesty ! 
Does  Mrs.  Smith  fear  that  Mrs.  Jones  next  door 
will  succeed  in  pumping  out  of  me  that  capital  bit 
of  information?  Little  docs  shp  know  the  long 


Some  of  the   "Enumerated" 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  111 

prison  sentence  at  "  hard  labor  "  that  stares  me  in 
the  face  for  any  such  slip ;  to  say  nothing  of  my 
naturally  incommunicative  disposition.  Or  is  she 
ashamed  to  let  me  know  the  truth? —  unaware  that 
all  such  information  goes  in  at  my  ears  and  down 
my  pencil  to  the  pink  card  before  me  like  a  message 
over  the  wires,  leaving  no  more  trace  behind.  Surely 
she  must  know  that  I  care  not  a  pencil-point  whether 
she  is  eighteen  or  fifty- two,  nor  remember  which  one 
minute  after  her  screen  door  has  slammed  behind 
me  —  unless  she  has  caused  me  to  glance  up  in  won- 
der at  her  silvering  temples  of  thirty-five  when  she 
simpers  "  twenty-two  " —  and  to  set  her  down  as 
forty  to  be  on  the  safe  side.  Oh  now,  please,  ladies, 
do  not  understand  me  as  accusing  the  American 
wives  of  Paraiso  in  general  of  this  weakness.  The 
large  majority  were  quite  pleasant,  frank,  and  over- 
flowing with  cheery  good  sense.  But  the  percentage 
who  were  not  was  far  larger  than  I,  who  am  also 
an  American,  was  pleased  to  find  it. 

But  doubly  astonishing  were  the  few  cases  of 
lying  by  proxy.  A  "  clean-cut,"  college-graduated 
civil  engineer  of  thirty-two  whom  one  would  have 
cited  as  an  example  of  the  best  type  of  American, 
gave  all  data  concerning  himself  in  an  unimpeach- 
able manner.  His  wife  was  absent.  When  the  ques- 
tion of  her  age  arose  he  gave  it,  with  the  slightest 
catch  in  his  voice,  as  twenty.  Now  that  might  be 
all  very  well.  Men  of  thirty-two  are  occasionally  so 


113  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

fortunate  as  to  marry  girls  of  twenty.  But  a  mo- 
ment later  the  gentleman  in  question  finds  himself 
announcing  that  his  wife  has  been  living  on  the  Zone 
with  him  since  1907 ;  and  that  she  was  born  in  New 
England!  Thus  is  he  tripped  over  his  own  clothes- 
line. For  New  England  girls  do  not  marry  at  fif- 
teen ;  mother  would  not  let  them  even  if  they  would. 

I,  too,  had  gradually  worked  my  way  high  up 
among  the  nondescript  cabins  on  the  upper  rim 
of  Paraiso  that  seem  on  the  very  verge  of  pitching 
headlong  into  the  noisy,  smoky  canal  far  below  with 
the  jar  of  the  next  explosion,  when  one  sunny  mid- 
afternoon  I  caught  sight  of  Renson  dejectedly 
trudging  down  across  what  might  be  called  the 
"  Maiden  "  of  Paraiso,  back  of  the  two-story  lodge- 
hall.  I  took  leave  of  my  ebony  hostess  and  de- 
scended. Renson  's  troubles  were  indeed  dishearten- 
ing. Back  in  the  jungled  fringe  of  the  town  he  had 
fallen  into  a  swarm  of  Martiniques,  and  Renson  's 
French  being  nothing  more  than  an  unstudied  mix- 
ture of  English  and  Spanish,  he  had  not  gathered 
much  information.  Moreover  negro  women  from 
the  French  isles  are  enough  to  frighten  any  virtuous 
young  Marine. 

"  What 's  the  sense  o'  me  tryin*  to  chew  the  fat 
in  French  ?  "  asked  Renson,  with  tears  in  his  voice. 
"  I  ain't  in  no  condition  to  work  at  this  census  busi- 
ness any  longer  anyway.  I  ain't  got  to  bed  before 
three  in  the  morning  this  week  " —  in  his  air  was 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  113 

open  suggestion  that  it  was  some  one  else's  fault  — 
"  Some  day  I  '11  be  gettin'  in  bad,  too.  This  mornin' 
a  fool  nigger  woman  asked  me  if  I  did  n't  want  her 
black  pickaninny  I  was  enumerating  thinkin'  it  was 
a  good  joke.  You  know  how  these  bush  kids  is 
runnin'  around  all  over  the  country  before  a  white 
man's  brat  could  walk  on  its  hind  legs.  '  Yes,'  I 
says,  '  if  I  was  goin'  alligator  huntin'  an'  needed 
bait ! '  I  come  near  catchin'  the  brat  up  by  the  feet 
an'  beatin'  its  can  off.  I  'm  out  o'  luck  any  way, 
an'—"  " 

The   fact   is   Renson   was   achine  to  be   "  fired." 


More  than~Ehirtyn3ays  Had  he  been  subject  only  to 
his  own  will,  and  it  was  high  time  he  returned  to  the 
nursery  discipline  of  camp.  Moreover  he  was  out 
of  cigarettes.  I  slipped  him  one  and  smoothed  him 
down  as  its  fumes  grew  —  for  Renson  was  as  tract- 
able as  a  child,  rightly  treated  —  and  set  him  to 
taking  Jamaican  tenements  in  the  center  of  town, 
while  I  struck  off  into  the  jungled  Martinique  hills 
myself. 

There  were  signs  abroad  that  the  census  job  was 
drawing  to  a  close.  My  first  pay-day  had  already 
come  and  gone  and  I  had  strolled  up  the  gravel  walk 
one  noon-day  to  the  Disembursing  Office  with  my  yel- 
low pay  certificate  duly  initialed  by  the  examiner 
of  accounts,  and  was  handed  my  first  four  twenty- 
dollar  gold  pieces  —  for  hotel  and  commissary  books 
sadly  reduce  a  good  paycheck.  Already  one  evening 


114  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

I  had  entered  the  census  office  to  find  "  the  boss  " 
just  peeling  off  his  sweat-dripping  undershirt  and 
dotted  with  skin-pricking  jungle  life  after  a  day 
mule-back  on  the  thither  side  of  the  canal ;  an  utterly 
fruitless  day,  for  not  only  had  he  failed  during  eight 
hours  of  plunging  through  the  wilderness  to  find  a 
single  hut  not  already  decorated  with  the  "  enumer- 
ated "  tag,  but  not  even  a  banana  could  he  lay  hands 
on  when  the  noon-hour  overhauled  him  far  from  the 
ministrations  of  "  Ben  "  and  the  breeze-swept  ver- 
anda of  Empire  hotel. 

It  was,  I  believe,  the  afternoon  following  Renson's 
linguistic  troubles  that  "  the  boss  "  came  jogging 
into  Paraiso  on  his  sturdy  mule.  In  his  eagerness 
to  "  clean  up "  the  territory  we  fell  to  corraling 
negroes  everywhere,  in  the  streets,  at  work,  buying 
their  supplies  at  the  commissary,  sleeping  in  the 
shade  of  wayside  trees,  anywhere  and  everywhere, 
until  at  last  in  his  excitement  "  the  boss  "  let  his 
medium  soft  pencil  slip  by  the  column  for  color  and 
dashed  down  the  abbreviation  for  "  mixed  "  after  the 
question,  "Married  or  Single?"  Which  may  have 
been  near  enough  the  truth  of  the  case,  but  sug- 
gested it  was  time  to  quit.  So  we  marked  Paraiso 
"  finished  except  for  recalls  "  and  returned  to  Em- 
pire. 

One  by  one  our  fellow-enumerators  had  dropped 
by  the  wayside,  some  by  mutual  agreement,  some 
without  any  agreement  whatever.  Renson  was  now 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  115 

relieved  from  census  duty,  to  his  great  joy, 
there  remained  but  four  of  us, —  "  the  boss  "  and 
"Mac"  in  the  office,  "  Scotty "  and  I  outside. 
A  deep  conference  ensued  and,  as  if  I  had  not 
had  good  luck  enough  already,  it  was  decided  that 
we  two  should  go  through  the  "  cut "  itself.  It 
was  like  offering  us  a  salary  to  view  all  the  Great 
Work  in  detail,  for  virtually  all  the  excavation  of 
any  importance  on  the  Zone  lay  within  the  confines 
of  our  district. 

So  one  day  "  Scotty "  and  I  descended  at  the 
girderless  railroad  bridge  and,  taking  each  one  side 
of  the  canal,  set  out  to  canvass  its  every  nook  and 
cranny.  The  canal  as  it  then  stood  was  about  the 
width  of  two  city  blocks,  an  immense  chasm  piled  and 
tumbled  with  broken  rock  and  earth,  in  the  center  a 
ditch  already  filled  with  grimy  water,  on  either  side 
several  levels  of  rough  rock  ledges  with  sheer  rugged 
stone  faces ;  for  the  hills  were  being  cut  away  in  layers 
each  far  above  the  other.  High  above  us  rose  the 
jagged  walls  of  the  "cut"  with  towns  hanging  by 
their  fingernails  all  along  its  edge,  and  ahead  in  the 
abysmal,  smoky  distance  the  great  channel  gashed 
through  Culebra  mountain. 

The  different  levels  varied  from  ten  to  twenty  feet 
one  above  the  other,  each  with  a  railroad  on  it,  back 
and  forth  along  which  incessantly  rumbled  and 
screeched  dirt-trains  full  or  empty,  halting  before  the 
steam-shovels,  that  shivered  and  spouted  thick  black 


116  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

smoke  as  they  ate  away  the  rocky  hills  and  cast  them 
in  great  giant  handsful  on  the  train  of  one-sided  flat- 
cars  that  moved  forward  bit  by  bit  at  the  flourish 
of  the  conductor's  yellow  flag.  Steam-shovels  that 
seemed  human  in  all  except  their  mammoth  fearless 
strength  tore  up  the  solid  rock  with  snorts  of  rage 
and  the  panting  of  industry,  now  and  then  flinging 
some  troublesome,  stubborn  boulder  angrily  upon 
the  cars.  Yet  they  could  be  dainty  as  human  fingers 
too,  could  pick  up  a  railroad  spike  or  push  a  rock 
gently  an  inch  further  across  the  car.  Each  was 
run  by  two  white  Americans,  or  at  least  what  would 
prove  such  when  they  reached  the  shower-bath  in 
their  quarters  —  the  craneman  far  out  on  the  shovel 
arm,  the  engineer  within  the  machine  itself  with  a 
labyrinth  of  levers  demanding  his  unbroken  atten- 
tion. Then  there  was  of  course  a  gang  of  negroes, 
firemen  and  the  like,  attached  to  each  shovel. 

All  the  day  through  I  climbed  and  scrambled  back 
and  forth  between  the  different  levels,  dodging  from 
one  track  to  another  and  along  the  rocky  floor  of 
the  canal,  needing  eyes  and  ears  both  in  front  and 
behind,  not  merely  for  trains  but  for  a  hundred  hid- 
den and  unknown  dangers  to  keep  the  nerves  taut. 
Now  and  then  a  palatial  motorcar,  like  some  rail- 
road breed  of  taxi,  sped  by  with  its  musical  insistent 
jingling  bells,  usually  with  one  of  the  countless  par- 
ties of  government  guests  or  tourists  in  spotless 
white  which  the  dry  season  brings.  Dirt-trains  kept 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  117 

the  right  of  way,  however,  for  the  Work  always  comes 
first  at  Panama.  Or  it  might  be  the  famous  "  yel- 
low car "  itself  with  members  of  the  Commission. 
Once  it  came  all  but  empty  and  there  dropped  off 
inconspicuously  a  man  in  baggy  duck  trousers,  a 
black  alpaca  coat  of  many  wrinkles ;  and  an  unas- 
suming straw  hat,  a  white-haired  man  with  blue  — 
almost  babyish  blue-eyes,  a  cigarette  dangling  from 
his  lips  as  he  strolled  about  with  restless  yet  quiet 
energy.  There  has  been  no  flash  and  glitter  of 
military  uniforms  on  the  Zone  since  the  French  sailed 
for  home,  but  every  one  knew  "  the  Colonel "  for  all 
that,  the  soldier  who  has  never  'tween  service,"  who 
has  never  heard  the  shrapnel  scream  by  overhead, 
yet  to  whom  the  world  owes  more  thanks  than  six 
conquering  generals  rolled  into  one. 

Scores  of  "  trypod "  and  "  Star "  drills,  whole 
battalions  of  deafening  machines  run  by  compressed 
air  brought  from  miles  away,  are  pounding  and 
grinding  and  jamming  holes  in  the  living  rock. 
After  them  will  presently  come  nonchalantly  stroll- 
ing along  gangs  of  the  ubiquitous  black  "  powder- 
men  "  and  carelessly  throw  down  boxes  of  dynamite 
and  pound  the  drill-holes  full  thereof  and  tamp  them 
down  ready  to  "  blow "  at  11 :30  and  5 :30  when 
the  workmen  are  out  of  range, —  those  mighty  ex- 
plosions that  twelve  times  a  week  set  the  porch  chairs 
of  every  I.  C.  C.  house  on  the  Isthmus  to  rocking,  and 
are  heard  far  out  at  sea. 


118  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

Anywhere  near  the  drills  is  such  a  roaring  and 
jangling  that  I  must  bellow  at  the  top  of  my  voice 
to  be  heard  at  all.  The  entire  gamut  of  sound-waves 
surrounds  and  enfolds  me,  and  with  it  all  the  power- 
ful Atlantic  breeze'  sweeps  deafeningly  through  the 
channel.  Down  in  the  bottom  of  the  canal  if  one 
step  behind  anything  that  shuts  off  the  breeze  it  is 
tropically  hot ;  yet  up  on  the  edge  of  the  chasm  above, 
the  trees  are  always  nodding  and  bowing  before  the 
ceaseless  wind  from  off  the  Caribbean.  Scores  of 
"  switcheros  "  drowse  under  their  sheet-iron  wigwams, 
erected  not  so  much  as  protection  from  the  sun,  for 
the  drowsers  are  mostly  negroes  and  immune  to  that, 
as  from  young  rocks  that  the  dynamite  blasts  fre- 
quently toss  a  quarter-mile.  Then  over  it  all  hang 
heavy  clouds  of  soft-coal  dust  from  trains  and 
shovels,  shifting  down  upon  the  black,  white  and 
mixed,  and  the  enumerator  alike;  a  dirty,  noisy, 
perilous,  enjoyable  job. 

Everywhere  are  gangs  of  men,  sometimes  two  or 
three  gangs  working  together  at  the  same  task. 
Shovel  gangs,  track  gangs,  surfacing  gangs,  dyna- 
mite gangs,  gangs  doing  everything  imaginable  with 
shovel  and  pick  and  crowbar,  gangs  down  on  the 
floor  of  the  canal,  gangs  far  up  the  steep  walls  of 
cut  rock,  gangs  stretching  away  in  either  direction 
till  those  far  off  look  like  upright  bands  of  the  leaf- 
cutting  ants  of  Panamanian  jungles ;  gangs  nearly 
all,  whatever  their  nationality,  in  the  blue  shirts  and 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  119 

khaki   trousers    of  the   Zone   commissary,   giving   a 
peculiar  color  scheme  to  all  the  scene. 

Now  and  then  the  boss  is  a  stony-eyed  American 
with  a  black  cigar  clamped  between  his  teeth.  More 
often  he  is  of  the  same  nationality  as  the  workers, 
quite  likely  from  the  same  town,  who  jabbers  a  little 
imitation  English.  Which  is  one  of  the  reasons 
why  a  force  of  "  time  inspectors "  is  constantly 
dodging  in  and  out  over  the  job,  time-book  and 
pencil  in  hand,  lest  some  fellow-townsman  of  the  boss 
be  earning  his  $1.50  a  day  under  the  shade  of  a  tree 
back  in  the  jungle.  Here  are  Basques  in  their 
bofnas,  preferring  their  native  "  Euscarra  "  to  Span- 
ish ;  French  "  niggers  "  and  English  "  niggers  " 
whom  it  is  to  the  interest  of  peace  and  order  to  keep 
as  far  apart  as  possible;  occasionally  a  few  sun- 
burned blond  men  in  a  shovel  gang,  but  they  prove 
to  be  Teutons  or  Scandinavians;  laborers  of  every 
color  and  degree  —  except  American  laborers,  more 
than  conspicuous  by  their  absence.  For  the  Amer- 
ican negro  is  an  untractable  creature  in  large  num- 
bers, and  the  caste  system  that  forbids  white  Amer- 
icans from  engaging  in  common  labor  side  by  side 
with  negroes  is  to  be  expected  in  an  enterprise  of 
which  the  leaders  are  not  only  military  men  but 
largely  southerners,  however  many  may  be  shiver- 
ing in  the  streets  of  Chicago  or  roaming  hungrily 
through  the  byways  of  St.  Louis.  It  is  well  so,  per- 
haps. None  of  us  who  feels  an  affection  for  the  Zone 


120  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

would  wish  to  see  its  atmosphere  lowered  from  what 
it  is  to  the  brutal  depths  of  our  railroad  construc- 
tion camps  in  the  States. 

The  attention  of  certain  state  legislatures  might 
advantageously  be  called  to  the  Zone  Spaniard's 
drinking-cup.  It  is  really  a  tin  can  on  the  end  of 
a  long  stick,  cover  and  all.  The  top  is  punched 
sieve-like  that  the  water  may  enter  as  it  is  dipped 
in  the  bucket  with  which  the  water-boy  strains  along. 
In  the  bottom  is  a  single  small  hole  out  of  which 
spurts  into  the  drinker's  mouth  a  little  stream  of 
water  as  he  holds  it  high  above  his  head,  as  once  he 
drank  wine  from  his  leather  bota  in  far-off  Spain. 
Many  a  Spanish  gang  comes  entirely  from  the  same 
town,  notably  Salamanca  or  Avila.  I  set  them  to 
staring  and  chattering  by  some  simple  remark  about 
their  birthplace :  "  Fine  view  from  the  Paseo  del 
Rastro,  eh?"  "Does  the  puente  romano  still  cross 
the  river?  "  But  I  had  soon  to  cease  such  personali- 
ties, for  picks  and  shovels  lay  idle  as  long  as  I  re- 
mained in  sight  and  Uncle  Sam  was  the  loser. 

So  many  were  the  gangs  that  I  advanced  barely 
a  half-mile  during  this  first  day  and,  lost  in  my 
work,  forgot  the  hour  until  it  was  suddenly  recalled 
by  the  insistent,  strident  tooting  of  whistles  that 
forewarns  the  setting-off  of  the  dynamite  charges 
from  the  little  red  electric  boxes  along  the  edge  of  the 
"  cut.'*  I  turned  back  toward  Paraiso  and,  all  but 
stumbling  over  little  red-wound  wires  everywhere  on 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

the  ground,  dodging  in  and  out,  running  forward, 
halting  or  suddenly  retreating,  I  worked  my  way 
gradually  forward,  while  all  the  world  about  me  was 
upheaving  and  spouting  and  belching  forth  to 
the  heavens,  as  if  I  had  been  caught  in  the  crater 
of  a  volcano  as  it  suddenly  erupted  without  warn- 
ing. 

The  history  of  Panama  is  strewn  with  "  dynamite 
stories."  Even  the  French  had  theirs  in  their  six- 
teen per  cent,  of  the  excavation  of  Culebra ;  in  Amer- 
ican annals  there  is  one  for  every  week.  Three  days 
before,  one  of  my  Empire  friends  set  off  one  after- 
noon for  a  stroll  through  the  "  cut "  he  had  not  seen 
for  a  year.  In  a  retired  spot  he  came  upon  two 
negroes  pounding  an  irregular  bundle.  "  What  you 
doing,  boys  ? "  he  inquired  with  idle  curiosity. 
"  Jes'  a  breakin'  up  dis  yere  dynamite,  boss,"  lan- 
guidly answered  one  of  the  blacks.  My  friend  was 
one  of  those  apprehensive,  over-cautious  fellows  so 
rare  on  the  Zone.  Without  so  much  as  taking  his 
leave  he  set  off  at  a  run.  Some  two  car-lengths  be- 
yond an  explosion  pitched  him  forward  and  all  but 
lifted  him  off  his  feet.  When  he  looked  back  the 
negroes  had  left.  Indeed  neither  of  them  has  re- 
ported for  work  since. 

Then  there  was  "  Mac's  "  case.  In  his  ambition 
for  census  efficiency  "  Mac "  was  in  the  habit  of 
stopping  workmen  wherever  he  met  them.  One  day 
he  encountered  a  Jamaican  carrying  a  box  of  dyna- 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

mite    on    his    head    and,    according   to    his    custom, 
shouted : 

"Hey,  boy!     Had  your  census  taken  yet?" 

"  What  dat,  boss?  "  cried  the  Jamaican  with  wide- 
open  eyes,  as  he  threw  the  box  at  "  Mac's  "  feet  and 
stood  at  respectful  attention. 

Somehow  "  Mac  "  lacked  a  bit  of  his  old  zealous- 
ness  thereafter. 

On  the  second  day  I  pushed  past  Cucaracha,  scene 
of  the  greatest  "  slide  "  in  the  history  of  the  canal 
when  forty-seven  acres  went  into  the  "  cut,"  bury- 
ing under  untold  tons  of  earth  and  rock  steam- 
shovels  and  railroads,  "  Star  "  and  "  trypod  "  drills, 
and  all  else  in  sight  —  except  the  "  rough-necks," 
who  are  far  too  fast  on  their  feet  to  be  buried  against 
their  will.  One  by  one  I  dragged  shovel  gangs  away 
to  a  distance  where  my  shouting  could  be  heard,  one 
by  one  I  commanded  drillmen  to  shut  off  their  deafen- 
ing machines,  all  day  I  dodged  switching,  snorting 
trains,  clambered  by  steep  rocky  paths,  or  ladders 
from  one  level  to  another,  howling  above  the  roar  of 
the  "  cut "  the  time-worn  questions,  straining  my 
ear  to  catch  the  answer.  Many  a  negro  did  not 
know  the  meaning  of  the  word  "  census,"  and  must 
have  it  explained  to  him  in  words  of  one  syllable. 
Many  a  time  I  climbed  to  some  lofty  rock  ledge  lined 
with  drills  and,  gesticulating  like  a  semaphore  in 
signal  practice,  caught  at  last  the  wandering  atten- 
tion of  a  negro,  to  shout  sore-throated  above  the 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  123 

incessant  pounding  of  machines  and  the  roaring  of 
the  Atlantic  breeze: 

"Hello,  boy!     Census  taken  yet?" 

A  long  vacant  stare,  then  at  last,  perhaps,  the 
answer : 

"  Oh,  yes  sah,  boss." 

"When  and  where?" 

"  In  Spanish  Town,  Jamaica,  three  year  ago, 
sah." 

Which  was  not  an  attempt  to  be  facetious  but  an 
answer  in  all  seriousness.  Why  should  not  one  cen- 
sus, like  one  baptism,  suffice  for  a  life-time?  It  was 
fortunate  that  enumerators  were  not  accustomed  to 
carry  deadly  weapons. 

Quick  changes  from  negro  to  Spanish  gangs  dem- 
onstrated beyond  all  future  question  how  much  more 
native  intelligence  has  the  white  man.  Rarely  did 
I  need  to  ask  a  Spaniard  a  question  twice,  still  less 
ask  him  to  repeat  the  answer.  His  replies  came  back 
sharp  and  swift  as  a  pelota  from  a  cesta.  West  In- 
dians not  only  must  hear  the  question  an  average 
of  three  times  but  could  seldom  give  the  simplest 
information  clearly  enough  to  be  intelligible,  though 
ostensibly  speaking  English.  A  Spanish  card  one 
might  fill  out  and  be  gone  in  less  time  than  the  negro 
could  be  roused  from  his  racial  torpor.  Yet  of  the 
Spaniards  on  the  Zone  surely  seventy  per  cent,  were 
wholly  illiterate,  while  the  negroes  from  the  British 
West  Indies,  thanks  to  their  good  fortune  in  being 


124  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

ruled  over  by  the  world's  best  colonist,  could  almost 
invariably  read  and  write;  many  of  those  shoveling 
in  the  "  cut  "  have  been  trained  in  trigonometry. 

Few  are  the  "  Zoners  "  now  who  do  not  consider 
the  Spaniard  the  best  workman  ever  imported  in  €^1 
the  sixty-five  years  from  the  railroad  surveying  to 
the  completion  of  the  canal.  The  stocky,  muscle- 
bound  little  fellows  come  no  longer  to  America  as 
conqulst  adores,  but  to  shovel  dirt.  And  yet 
more  cheery,  willing  workers,  more  law-abiding  sub- 
jects are  scarcely  to  be  found.  It  is  unfortunate  we 
could  not  have  imported  Spaniards  for  all  the  canal 
work;  even  they  have  naturally  learned  some 
"  soldiering  "  from  the  example  of  lazy  negroes  who, 
where  laborers  must  be  had,  are  a  bit  better  than 
no  labor  —  though  not  much. 

The  third  day  came,  and  high  above  me  towered 
the  rock  cliffs  of  Culebra's  palm-crowned  hill,  steam- 
shovels  approaching  the  summit  in  echelon,  here  and 
there  an  incipient  earth  and  rock  "  slide  "  dribbling 
warningly  down.  He  who  still  fancies  the  digging 
of  the  canal  an  ordinary  task  should  have  tramped 
with  us  through  just  our  section,  halting  to  speak 
to  every  man  in  it,  climbing  out  of  this  man-made 
canon  twice  a  day,  a  strenuous  climb  even  near  its 
ends,  while  at  Culebra  one  looks  up  at  all  but  un- 
scalable mountain  walls  on  either  side. 

From  time  to  time  we  hear  murmurs  from  abroad 
that  Americans  are  making  light  of  catastrophies  on 


An  I.  C.  C.  free  public  school  for  non-whites 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  127 

the  Isthmus,  that  they  cover  up  their  great  disasters 
by  a  strict  censorship  of  news.  The  latter  is  mere 
absurdity.  As  to  catastrophies,  a  great  "  slide " 
or  a  premature  dynamite  explosion  are  serious  dis- 
aster to  Americans  on  the  job  just  as  they  would 
be  to  Europeans.  But  whereas  the  continental 
European  would  sit  down  before  the  misfortune  and 
weep,  the  American  swears  a  round  oath,  spits  on 
his  hands,  and  pitches  in  to  shovel  the  "  slide  "  out 
again.  He  is  n't  belittling  the  disasters  ;  it  is  merely 
that  he  knows  the  canal  has  got  to  be  dug  and  goes 
ahead  and  digs  it.  That  is  the  greatest  thing  on  the 
Zone.  Amid  all  the  childish  snarling  of  "  Spigo- 
ties,"  the  back-biting  of  Europe,  the  congressional 
wrangles,  the  Cabinet  politics,  the  man  on  the  job, — 
"  the  Colonel,"  the  average  American,  the  "  rough- 
neck " —  goes  right  on  digging  the  canal  day  by 
day  as  if  he  had  never  heard  a  rumor  of  all  this 
outside  noise. 

Mighty  is  the  job  from  one  point  of  view;  yet 
tiny  from  another.  With  all  his  enormous  equip- 
ment, his  peerless  ingenuity,  and  his  feverish  activity 
all  little  man  has  succeeded  in  doing  is  to  scratch  a 
little  surface  wound  in  Mother  Earth,  cutting  open  a 
few  superficial  veins,  of  water,  that  trickle  down  the 
rocky  face  of  the  "  cut." 

By  March  twelfth  we  had  carried  our  task  past 
and  under  Empire  suspension  bridge,  and  the  end  of 
the  "  cut  "  was  almost  in  sight.  That  day  I  clawed 


128  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

and  scrambled  a  score  of  times  up  the  face  of  rock 
walls.  I  zigzagged  through  long  rows  of  negroes 
pounding  holes  in  rock  ledges.  I  stumbled  and 
splashed  my  way  through  gangs  of  Martinique 
"  muckers."  I  slid  down  the  face  of  government- 
made  cliffs  on  the  seat  of  my  commissary  breeches. 
I  fought  my  way  up  again  to  stalk  through  long 
lines  of  men  picking  away  at  the  dizzy  edge  of  sheer 
precipices.  I  rolled  down  in  the  sand  and  rubble  of 
what  threatened  to  develop  into  "  slides."  I  crawled 
under  snorting  steam-shovels  to  drag  out  besooted 
negroes  —  negroes  so  besooted  I  had  to  ask  them 
their  color  —  while  dodging  the  gigantic  swinging 
shovel  itself,  to  say  nothing  of  "  dhobie  "  blasts  and 
rocks  of  the  size  of  drummers'  trunks  that  spilled 
from  it  as  it  swung.  I  climbed  up  into  the  quivering 
monster  itself  to  interrupt  the  engineer  at  his  levers, 
to  shout  at  the  craneman  on  his  beam.  I  sprang 
aboard  every  train  that  was  not  running  at  full 
speed,  walking  along  the  running-board  into  the  cab ; 
if  not  to  "  get "  the  engineer  at  least  to  gain  new 
life  from  his  private  ice-water  tank.  I  scrambled 
over  tenders  and  quarter-miles  of  "  Lidgerwood 
flats "  piled  high  with  broken  rock  and  earth,  to 
scream  at  the  American  conductor  and  his  black 
brakemen,  often  to  find  myself,  by  the  time  I  had  set 
down  one  of  them,  carried  entirely  out  of  my  dis- 
trict, to  Pedro  Miguel  or  beyond  the  Chagres,  and 
have  to  "  hit  the  grit  "  in  "  hobo  "  fashion  and  catch 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  129 

something  back  to  the  spot  where  I  left  off.  In 
short  I  poked  into  every  corner  of  the  "  cut "  known 
to  man,  bawling  in  the  November-first  voice  of  a 
presidential  candidate  to  everything  in  trousers : 

"Eh!     'Ad  yer  census  taken  yet?" 

And  what  was  my  reward?  From  the  northern 
edge  of  Empire  to  where  the  "  cut "  sinks  away  into 
the  Chagres  and  the  low,  flat  country  beyond,  I  en- 
rolled —  just  thirteen  persons.  It  was  then  and 
there,  though  it  still  lacked  an  hour  of  noon,  that 
I  ceased  to  be  a  census  enumerator.  With  slow  and 
deliberate  step  I  climbed  out  of  the  canal  and  across 
a  pathed  field  to  Bas  Obispo  and,  sitting  down  in 
the  shade  of  her  station,  patiently  awaited  the  train 
that  would  carry  me  back  to  Empire. 

Four  thousand,  six  hundred  and  seventy-seven 
Zone  residents  had  I  enrolled  during  those  six  weeks. 
Something  over  half  of  these  were  Jamaicans.  Of 
the  states  Pennsylvania  was  best  represented. 
Martinique  negroes,  Greeks,  Spaniards,  and  Pana- 
manians were  some  eighty  per  cent,  illiterate ;  of  some 
three  hundred  of  the  first  only  a  half  dozen  even 
claimed  to  read  and  write;  and  non-wedlock  was 
virtually  universal  among  them. 

Rumor  has  it  that  there  are  seventy-two  separate 
states  and  dependencies  represented  on  the  Isthmus. 
My  own  cards  showed  a  few  less.  Most  conspicuous 
absences,  besides  American  negroes,  were  natives  of 
Honduras,  of  four  countries  of  South  America,  of 


130  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

most  of  Africa,  and  of  entire  Australia.  That  this 
was  largely  due  to  chance  was  shown  by  the  fact  that 
my  fellow-enumerators  found  persons  from  all  these 
countries. 

I  had  enrolled  persons  born  in  the  following  places : 
All  the  United  States  except  three  or  four  states 
in  the  far  northwest ;  Canada,  Mexico,  Guatemala, 
Salvador,  Nicaragua,  Costa  Rica,  Panama,  Canal 
Zone,  Colombia,  Venezuela,  British  Guiana  (De- 
marara),  French  and  Dutch  Guiana,  Ecuador,  Peru, 
Bolivia  and  Chile,  Cuba,  Hayti  and  Santo 
Domingo,  Jamaica,  Barbados,  St.  Vincent,  Trinidad, 
Saint  Lucia,  Montserrat,  Dominica,  Nevis,  Nassau, 
Eleuthera  and  Inagua,  Martinique,  Guadalupe,  Saint 
Thomas  (Danish  West  Indies),  Cura9ao  and  Tobago, 
England,  Ireland,  Scotland,  Holland,  Finland, 
Belgium,  Denmark,  Sweden,  Norway,  Russia,  France, 
Spain,  Andorra,  Portugal,  Switzerland,  Germany, 
Italy,  Austria,  Hungary,  Greece,  Servia,  Turkey, 
Canary  Islands,  Syria,  Palestine,  Arabia,  India 
(from  Tuticorm  to  Lahore),  China,  Japan,  Egypt, 
Sierra  Leone,  South  Africa  and  —  the  High  Seas. 

"Where  you  born,  boy?"  I  had  run  across  a 
wrinkled  old  negro  who  had  worked  more  than  thirty 
years  for  the  P.  R.  R. 

"  'Deed  ah  don'  know,  boss," 

"  Oh,  come !     Don't  know  where  you  were  born  ?  " 
"  Fo'  Gawd,  boss,  ah 's  tellin'  yo  de  truff.     Ah 
don  know,  'cause  ah  born  to  sea." 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  131 

"  Well,   what    country    are   you    a    subject    of? " 

"  Truly  ah  cahn't  say,  boss." 

"  Well  what  nationality  was  your  father?  " 

"  Ah  neveh  see  him,  sah." 

"  Well  then  where  the  devil  did  you  first  land  after 
you  were  born?" 

"  'Deed  ah  cahn't  say,  boss.  T'ink  it  were  one 
o'  dem  islands.  Reckon  ah 's  a  subjec'  o'  de'  worl', 
boss." 

Weeks  afterward  the  population  of  Uncle  Sam's 
ten  by  fifty-mile  strip  of  tropics  was  found  to  have 
been  on  February  first,  1918,  62,810.  No,  anxious 
reader,  I  am  not  giving  away  inside  information ;  the 
source  of  my  remarks  is  the  public  prints.  Of  these 
about  25,000  were  British  subjects  (West  Indian 
negroes  with  very  few  exceptions).  Of  the  entire 
.population  37,428  were  employed  by  the  U.  S.  gov- 
ernment. Of  white  Americans,  of  the  Brahmin  caste 
of  the  "  gold "  roll,  there  were  employed  on  the 
Zone  but  5,228, 


CHAPTER  V 

POLICE  headquarters  presented  an  unusual  air 
of  preoccupation  next  morning.  In  the  cor- 
ner office  the  telephone  rang  often  and  imperatively, 
several  times  erect  figures  in  khaki  and  broad 
"  Texas  "  hats  flashed  by  the  doorway,  the  drone  of 
earnest  conference  sounded  a  few  minutes,  and  the 
figures  flashed  as  suddenly  out  again  into  the  world. 
In  the  inner  office  I  glanced  once  more  in  review 
through  the  "  Rules  and  Regulations."  The  Zone, 
too,  was  now  familiar  ground,  and  as  for  the  third 
requirement  for  a  policeman  —  to  know  the  Zone 
residents  by  sight  —  a  strange  face  brought  me  a 
start  of  surprise,  unless  it  beamed  above  the  garb 
that  shouted  "  tourist."  Now  all  I  needed  was  a 
few  hours  of  conference  and  explanation  on  the 
duties,  rights,  and  privileges  of  policemen;  and  that 
of  course  would  come  as  soon  as  leisure  again  settled 
down  over  headquarters. 

Musing  which  I  was  suddenly  startled  to  my  feet 
by  "  the  Captain "  appearing  in  the  doorway. 

"  Catch    the    next    train    to    Balboa ; "    he    said. 

"  You  Ve  got  four  minutes.     You  '11  find  Lieutenant 

132 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  133 

Long  on  board.  Here  are  the  people  to  look  out 
for." 

He  thrust  into  my  hands  a  slip  of  paper,  from 
another  direction  there  was  tossed  at  me  a  new  brass- 
check  and  "  First-Class  Private  "  police  badge  No. 
88,  and  I  was  racing  down  through  Ancon.  In  the 
meadow  below  the  Tivoli  I  risked  time  to  glance  at 
the  slip  of  paper.  On  it  were  the  names  of  an  ex- 
president  and  two  ministers  of  a  frowsy  little  South 
American  republic  during  whose  rule  a  former  presi- 
dent and  his  henchmen  had  been  brutally  mur- 
dered by  a  popular  uprising  in  the  very  capital 
itself. 

In  the  first-class  coach  I  found  Lieutenant  Long, 
towering  so  far  above  all  his  surroundings  as  to  have 
been  easily  recognized  even  had  he  not  been  in  uni- 
form. Beside  him  sat  Corporal  Castillo  of  the 
"  plain-clothes "  squad,  a  young  man  of  forty, 
with  a  high  forehead,  a  stubby  black  mustache, 
and  a  chin  that  was  decisive  without  being  aggres- 
sive. 

"  Now  here  's  the  Captain's  idea,"  explained  the 
Lieutenant,  as  the  train  swung  away  around  Ancon 
hill,  "  We  '11  have  to  take  turns  mounting  guard  over 
them,  of  course.  I  '11  have  to  talk  Spanish,  and  no- 
body 'd  have  to  look  at  Castillo  more  than  once  to 
know  he  was  born  up  in  some  crack  in  the  Andes." — 
Which  was  one  of  the  Lieutenant's  jokes,  for  the 
Corporal,  though  a  Colombian,  was  as  white,  sharp- 


134  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

witted,  and  energetic  as  any  American  on  the  Zone. 
— "  But  no  one  to  look  at  him  would  suspect  that 
FT  —  French,  is  it?" 

"  Franck." 

"  Oh,  yes,  that  Franck  could  speak  Spanish. 
We  '11  do  our  best  to  inflate  that  impression,  and 
when  it  comes  your  turn  at  guard-mount  you  can 
probably  let  several  little  things  of  interest  drift  in 
at  your  ears." 

"  I  left  headquarters  before  the  Captain  had  time 
to  explain,"  I  suggested. 

"  Oh !  "  said  the  Lieutenant.  "  Well,  here  it  is  in 
a  spectacle-case,  as  our  friend  Kipling  would  put  it. 
We  're  on  our  way  to  Culebra  Island.  There  are 
now  in  quarantine  there  three  men  who  arrived  yes- 
terday from  South  America.  They  are  members  of 
the  party  of  the  murdered  president.  To-day  there 
will  arrive  and  also  be  put  in  hock  the  three  gents 
whose  names  you  have  there.  Now  we  have  a  pri- 
vate inside  hunch  that  the  three  already  here  have 
come  up  particularly  and  specifically  to  prepare  for 
the  funeral  of  the  three  who  are  arriving.  Which  is 
no  hair  off  our  brows,  except  it 's  up  to  us  to  see  they 
don't  pull  off  any  little  stunts  of  that  kind  on  Zone 
territory." 

At  least  this  police  business  was  starting  well;  if 
this  was  a  sample  it  would  be  a  real  job. 

The  train  had  stopped  and  we  were  climbing  the 
steps  of  Balboa  police  station;  for  without  the  co- 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  135 

operation  of  the  "  Admiral  of  the  Pacific  Fleet " 
we  could  not  reach  Culebra  Island. 

"  By  the  way,  I  suppose  you  're  well  armed  ?  " 
asked  the  Lieutenant  in  his  high  querulous  voice,  as 
we  drank  a  last  round  of  ice-water  preparatory  to 
setting  out  again. 

"  Em  —  I  've  got  a  fountain  pen,"  I  replied.  "  I 
have  n't  been  a  policeman  twenty  minutes  yet,  and  I 
was  appointed  in  a  hurry." 

"  Fine !  "  cried  "  the  Admiral  "  sarcastically, 
snatching  open  the  door  of  a  closet  beside  the  desk. 
"With  a  warm  job  like  this  on  hand!  You  know 
what  these  South  Americans  are — "  with  a  wink  at 
the  Lieutenant  that  was  meant  also  for  Castillo,  who 
stood  with  his  felt  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  and 
a  far-away  look  in  his  eyes. 

"  Yah,  mighty  dangerous  —  around  meal  time," 
said  the  Corporal;  though  at  the  same  time  he  drew 
from  a  hip  pocket  a  worn  leather  holster  containing 
a  revolver,  and  examined  it  intently. 

Meanwhile  "  the  Admiral "  had  handed  me  a  mas- 
sive No.  38  "  Colt  "  with  holster,  a  box  of  cartridges, 
and  a  belt  that  might  easily  have  served  as  a  horse's 
saddle-girth.  When  I  had  buckled  it  on  under  my 
coat  the  armament  felt  like  a  small  boy  clinging 
about  my  waist. 

We  trooped  on  down  a  sort  of  railroad  junction 
with  a  score  of  abandoned  wooden  houses.  It  was 
here  I  had  first  landed  on  the  Zone  one  blazing  Sun- 


136  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

day  nearly  two  months  before  and  tramped  away  for 
some  miles  on  a  rusty  sandy  track  along  a  canal  al- 
ready filled  with  water  till  a  short  jungle  path  led 
me  into  my  first  Zone  town.  Already  that  seemed 
ancient  history. 

The  police  launch,  manned  by  negro  prisoners,  with 
"  the  Admiral  "  in  a  cushioned  arm-chair  at  the  wheel, 
was  soon  scudding  away  across  the  sunlit  harbor,  the 
breakwater  building  of  the  spoil  of  Culebra  "  cut " 
on  our  left,  ahead  the  cluster  of  small  islands  being 
torn  to  pieces  for  Uncle  Sam's  fortifications.  The 
steamer  being  not  yet  sighted,  we  put  in  at  Naos 
Island,  where  the  bulky  policeman  in  charge  led  us 
to  dinner  at  the  I.  C.  C.  hotel,  during  which  the 
noonday  blasting  on  the  Zone  came  dully  across  to 
us.  Soon  after  we  were  landing  at  the  cement  side- 
walk of  the  island  —  where  I  had  been  a  prisoner  for 
a  day  in  January  as  my  welcome  to  U.  S.  territory 
—  and  were  being  greeted  by  the  pocket  edition 
doctor  and  the  bay^-windowed  German  who  had  been 
my  wardens  on  that  occasion. 

We  found  the  conspirators  at  a  table  in  a  corridor 
of  the  first-class  quarantine  station.  In  the  words 
of  Lieutenant  Long  "  they  fully  looked  the  part," 
being  of  distinctly  merciless  cut  of  jib.  They  were 
roughly  dressed  and  without  collars,  convincing  proof 
of  some  nefarious  design,  for  when  the  Latin-Ameri- 
can entitled  to  wear  them  leaves  off  his  white  collar 
and  his  cane  he  must  be  desperate  indeed. 


Culebra  Island,  Zone  Quarantine  Station 


"Across  the  bay  on  the  lower  slope  of  a  long  hill  drowsed  the  city  of 

Panama" 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  139 

We  "  braced  "  them  at  once,  marching  down  upon 
them  as  they  were  murmuring  with  heads  together 
over  a  mass  of  typewritten  sheets.  The  Corporal 
was  delegated  to  inform  them  in  his  most  urbane  and 
hidalguezco  Castilian  that  we  were  well  acquainted 
with  their  errand  and  that  we  were  come  to  frustrate 
by  any  legitimate  means  in  our  power  the  consumma- 
tion of  any  such  project  on  American  territory. 
When  the  first  paralyzed  stare  of  astonishment  that 
plans  they  had  fancied  locked  in  their  own  breasts 
were  known  to  others  had  somewhat  subsided,  one  of 
them  assumed  the  spokesmanship.  In  just  as  courtly 
and  superabundant  language  he  replied  that  they 
were  only  too  well  aware  of  the  inadvisability  of 
carrying  out  any  act  against  its  sovereignty  on  U. 
S.  soil;  that  so  long  as  they  were  on  American 
territory  they  would  conduct  themselves  in  a  most 
circumspect  and  caballcroso  manner  — "  but,"  he 
concluded,  "  in  the  most  public  street  of  Panama 
city  the  first  time  we  meet  those  three  dogs  —  we 
shall  spit  in  their  faces  —  that 's  all,  nada  mas,"  and 
the  blazing  eyes  announced  all  too  plainly  what  he 
meant  by  that  figure  of  speech. 

That  was  all  very  well,  was  our  smiling  and  urbane 
reply,  but  to  be  on  the  safe  side  and  merely  as  a 
matter  of  custom  we  were  under  the  unfortunate  ne- 
cessity of  requesting  them  to  submit  to  the  annoy- 
ance of  having  their  baggage  and  persons  examined 
with  a  view  to  discovering  what  weapons  — 


140  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

"  Como  no  senores?  All  the  examination  you  de- 
sire." Which  was  exceedingly  kind  of  them. 
Whereupon,  when  the  Lieutenant  had  interpreted  to 
me  their  permission,  we  fell  upon  them  and  amid 
countless  expressions  of  mutual  esteem  gave  them 
and  their  baggage  such  a  "  frisking  "  as  befalls  a 
Kaffir  leaving  a  South  African  diamond  mine,  and 
found  them  armed  with  —  a  receipt  from  the  quar- 
antine doctor  for  "  one  pearl-handled  Smill  and  Wil- 
son No.  32."  Either  they  really  intended  to  post- 
pone their  little  affair  until  they  reached  Panama, 
or  they  had  succeeded  in  concealing  their  weapons 
elsewhere. 

The  doctor  and  his  assistant  were  already  being 
rowed  out  to  the  steamer  that  was  to  bring  the  vic- 
tims. They  were  to  be  lodged  in  a  room  across  the 
corridor  from  the  conspirators,  which  corridor  it 
would  be  our  simple  duty  to  patrol  with  a  view  to 
intercepting  any  exchange  of  stray  lead.  We  fell 
to  planning  such  division  of  the  twenty-four  hours  as 
should  give  me  the  most  talkative  period.  The  Lieu- 
tenant took  the  trouble  further  to  convince  the  trio 
of  my  total  ignorance  of  Spanish  by  a  distinct  and 
elaborate  explanation,  in  English,  of  the  difference 
between  the  words  "  muchacho  "  and  "  muchacha." 
Then  we  wandered  down  past  the  grimy  steerage 
station  to  the  shore  end  of  the  little  wharf  to  await 
the  doctor  and  our  proteges. 

The   ocean  breeze   swept   unhampered  across   the 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  141 

island ;  on  its  rocky  shore  sounded  the  dull  rumble  of 
waves,  for  the  sea  was  rolling  a  bit  now.  The  swell- 
ing tide  covered  inch  by  inch  a  sandy  ridge  that  con- 
nected us  with  another  island,  gradually  drowning 
beneath  its  waters  several  rusty  old  hulls.  A  little 
rocky  wooded  isle  to  the  left  cut  off  the  future  en- 
trance to  the  canal.  Some  miles  away  across  the 
bay  on  the  lower  slope  of  a  long  hill  drowsed  the  city 
of  Panama  in  brilliant  sunshine;  and  beyond,  the 
hazy  mountainous  country  stretched  southwestward 
to  be  lost  in  the  molten  horizon.  On  a  distant  hill 
some  Indian  was  burning  off  a  patch  of  jungle  to 
plant  his  corn. 

Meanwhile  the  Lieutenant  and  the  Corporal  had 
settled  some  Lombroso  proposition  and  fallen  to  re- 
citing poetry.  The  former,  who  was  evidently  a 
lover  of  melancholy,  mouth-filling  verse,  was  declaim- 
ing "  The  Raven  "  to  the  open  sea.  I  listened  in 
wonder.  Was  this  then  police  talk?  I  had  expected 
rough,  untaught  fellows  whose  conversation  at  best 
would  be  pornographic  rather  than  poetic.  My 
astonishment  swelled  to  the  bursting  point  when  the 
Colombian  not  only  caught  up  the  poem  where  the 
Lieutenant  left  off  but  topped  it  off  with  that  peer- 
less translation  by  Bonalde  the  Venezuelan,  begin- 
ning: 

Una  fosca  media  noche,  cuando  en  tristes  reflexiones 
Sobre  mas  de  un  raro  inf  olio  de  olvidados  cronicones  — 


And  just  then  the  quarantine  launch  swung  around 
the  neighboring  island.  I  tightened  my  horse  belt 
and  dragged  the  "  Colt  "  around  within  easy  reach ; 
and  a  moment  later  the  doctor  and  his  bulking  un- 
derstudy stepped  ashore  —  alone. 

"  They  did  n't  come,"  said  the  former ;  "  they  were 
not  allowed  to  leave  their  own  country." 

"  Hell  and  damnation,"  said  the  Lieutenant  at 
length  in  a  calm,  conversational  tone  of  voice,  with 
the  air  of  a  small  boy  who  has  been  wantonly  robbed 
of  a  long-promised  holiday  but  who  is  determined  not 
to  make  a  scene  over  it.  The  Corporal  seemed  in- 
different, and  stood  with  the  far-away  look  in  his 
eyes  as  if  he  were  already  busy  with  some  other  plans 
or  worries.  But  then,  the  Corporal  was  married. 
As  for  myself,  I  had  somehow  felt  from  the  first  that 
it  was  too  good  to  be  true.  Adventure  has  steadily 
dodged  me  all  my  days. 

A  half-hour  later  we  were  pitching  across  the  bay 
toward  Ancon  hill,  scaled  bare  on  one  end  by  the 
work  of  fortification  like  a  Hindu  hair-cut.  The 
water  came  spitting  inboard  now  and  then,  and  de- 
jected silence  reigned  within  the  craft.  But  spirits 
gradually  revived  and  before  we  could  make  out  the 
details  of  the  wharf  the  Corporal's  hearty  genuine 
laughter  and  the  Lieutenant's  rousing  carcajadr* 
were  again  drifting  across  the  water.  At  Balboa  I 
unburdened  myself  of  my  shooting  hardware  and, 
catching  the  labor-train,  was  soon  mounting  the 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  143 

graveled  walk  to  Ancon  police  station.  In  the  sec- 
ond-story squad-room  of  the  bungalow  were  eight 
beds.  But  there  were  more  than  enough  policemen 
to  go  round,  and  the  legal  occupant  of  the  bunk  I 
fell  asleep  in  returned  from  duty  at  midnight  and  I 
transferred  to  the  still  warm  nest  of  a  man  on  the 
"  grave-yard  "  shift. 

"  It 's  customary  to  put  a  man  in  uniform  for  a 
while  first  before  assigning  him  to  plain-clothes 
duty,"  the  Inspector  was  saying  next  morning  when 
I  finished  the  oath  of  office  that  had  been  omitted  in 
the  haste  of  my  appointment,  "  but  we  have  waived 
that  in  your  case  because  of  the  knowledge  of  the 
Zone  the  census  must  have  given  you." 

Thus  casually  was  I  robbed  of  the  opportunity 
to  display  my  manly  form  in  uniform  to  tourists 
of  trains  and  the  Tivoli  —  tourists,  I  say,  because 
the  "  Zoners  "  would  never  have  noticed  it.  But  we 
must  all  accept  the  decrees  of  fate. 

That  was  the  full  extent  of  the  Inspector's  re- 
marks ;  no  mention  whatever  of  the  sundry  little 
points  the  recruit  is  anxious  to  be  enlightened  upon. 
In  government  jobs  one  learns  those  details  by  ex- 
perience. For  the  time  being  there  was  nothing  for 
me  to  do  but  to  descend  to  the  "  gum-shoe  "  desk  in 
Ancon  station  and  sit  in  the  swivel-chair  opposite 
Lieutenant  Long  "  waiting  for  orders." 

Toward  noon  a  thought  struck  me.  I  swung  the 
telephone  around  and  "  got  "  the  Inspector. 


144  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

"  All  my  junk  is  up  in  Empire  yet,"  I  remarked. 

"  All  right,  tell  the  desk-man  down  there  to  make 
you  out  a  pass.  Or  —  hold  the  wire!  As  long  as 
you  're  going  out,  there  's  a  prisoner  over  in  Panama 
that  belongs  up  in  Empire.  Go  over  and  tell  the 
Chief  you  want  Tal  Fulano." 

I  wormed  my  way  through  the  fawning,  neck-cran- 
ing, many-shaded  mob  of  political  henchmen  and  ob- 
sequious petitioners  into  the  sacred  hushed  precincts 
of  Panama  police  headquarters.  A  paunchcd 
"  Spigoty  "  with  a  shifty  eye  behind  large  bowed 
glasses,  vainly  striving  to  exude  dignity  and  wisdom, 
received  me  with  the  oily  smirk  of  the  Panamanian 
office-holder  who  feels  the  painful  necessity  of  keep- 
ing on  outwardly  good  terms  with  all  Americans.  I 
flashed  my  badge  and  mentioned  a  name.  A  few 
moments  later  there  was  presented  to  me  a  sturdy, 
if  somewhat  flabby,  young  Spaniard  carefully  dressed 
and  perfumed.  We  bowed  like  life-long  acquaint- 
ances and,  stepping  down  to  the  street,  entered  a 
cab.  The  prisoner,  which  he  was  now  only  in  name, 
was  a  muscular  fellow  with  whom  I  should  have  fared 
badly  in  personal  combat.  I  was  wholly  unarmed, 
and  in  a  foreign  land.  All  those  sundry  little  un- 
explained points  of  a  policeman's  duty  were  bubbling 
up  within  me.  When  the  prisoner  turned  to  remark 
it  was  a  warm  day  should  I  warn  him  that  anything 
he  said  would  be  used  against  him?  When  he  or- 
dered the  driver  to  halt  before  the  "  Panazone  "  that 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  145 

he  might  speak  to  some  friends  should  I  fiercely  coun- 
termand the  order?  What  was  my  duty  when  the 
friends  handed  him  some  money  and  a  package  of 
cigars?  Suppose  he  should  start  to  follow  his 
friends  inside  to  have  a  drink  —  but  he  did  n't.  We 
drove  languidly  on  down  the  avenue  and  up  into  An- 
con,  where  I  heaved  a  genuine  sigh  of  relief  as  we 
crossed  the  unmarked  street  that  made  my  badge 
good  again.  The  prisoner  was  soon  behind  pad- 
locks and  the  money  and  cigars  in  the  station  safe. 
These  and  him  and  the  transfer  card  I  took  again 
with  me  into  the  foreign  Republic  in  time  for  the 
evening  train.  But  he  seemed  even  more  anxious 
than  I  to  attract  no  attention,  and  once  in  Empire 
requested  that  we  take  the  shortest  and  most  incon- 
spicuous route  to  the  police  station;  and  my  re- 
sponsibility was  soon  over. 

Many  were  the  Z.  P.  facts  I  picked  up  during  the 
next  few  days  in  the  swivel-chair.  The  Zone  Police 
force  of  1912  consisted  of  a  Chief  of  Police,  an  As- 
sistant Chief,  two  Inspectors,  four  Lieutenants,  eight 
sergeants,  twenty  corporals,  one  hundred  and  seven- 
teen "  first-class  policemen,"  and  one  hundred  and 
sixteen  "  policemen  "  (West  Indian  negroes  without 
exception,  though  none  but  an  American  citizen  could 
aspire  to  any  white  position)  ;  not  to  mention  five 
clerks  at  headquarters,  who  are  quite  worth  the  men- 
tioning. "  Policemen "  wore  the  same  uniform  as 
"  first-class  "  officers,  with  khaki-covered  helmet  in- 


146  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

stead  of  "  Texas  "  hat  and  canvas  instead  of  leather 
leggings,  drew  one-half  the  pay  of  a  white  private, 
were  not  eligible  for  advancement,  and  with  some 
few  notable  exceptions  were  noted  for  what  the}-  did 
know  and  the  facility  with  which  they  could  not 
learn.  One  Inspector  was  in  charge  of  detective 
work  and  the  other  an  overseer  of  the  uniformed 
force.  Each  of  the  Lieutenants  was  in  charge  of 
one-fourth  of  the  Zone  with  headquarters  respec- 
tively at  Ancon,  Empire,  Gorgona,  and  Cristobal, 
and  the  sub-stations  within  these  districts  in  charge 
of  sergeants,  corporals,  or  experienced  privates,  ac- 
cording to  importance. 

Years  ago  when  things  were  yet  in  primeval  chaos 
and  the  memorable  sixth  of  February  of  1904  was 
still  well  above  the  western  horizon  there  was  gath- 
ered together  for  the  protection  of  the  newly-born 
Canal  Strip  a  band  of  "  bad  men  "  from  our  fero- 
cious Southwest,  warranted  to  feed  on  criminals  each 
breakfast  time,  and  in  command  of  a  man-eating 
rough-rider.  But  somehow  the  bad  men  seemed  un- 
able to  transplant  to  this  new  and  richer  soil  the 
banefulness  that  had  thrived  so  successfully  in  the 
land  of  sage-brush  and  cactus.  The  gourmandizing 
promised  to  be  chiefly  at  the  criminal  tables ;  and  be- 
fore long  it  was  noted  that  the  noxious  gentlemen 
were  gradually  drifting  back  to  their  native  sand 
dunes,  and  the  rough-riding  gave  way  to  a  more  or- 
derly style  of  horsemanship.  Then  bit  by  bit  some 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  147 

men  —  just  men  without  any  qualifying  adjective 
whatever  —  began  to  get  mixed  up  in  the  matter ; 
one  after  another  army  lieutenants  were  detailed  to 
help  the  thing  along,  until  by  and  by  they  got  the 
right  army  lieutenant  and  the  right  men  and  the 
Z.  P.  grew  to  what  it  is  to-day, —  not  the  love,  per- 
haps, but  the  pride  of  every  "  Zoner  "  whose  name 
cannot  be  found  on  some  old  "  blotter." 

There  are  a  number  of  ways  of  getting  on  the 
force.  There  is  the  broad  and  general  high-way  of 
being  appointed  in  Washington  and  shipped  down 
like  a  nice  fresh  vegetable  in  the  original  package 
and  delivered  just  as  it  left  the  garden  without  the 
pollution  of  alien  hands.  Then  there 's  the  big, 
impressive,  broad-shouldered  fellow  with  some  life 
and  military  service  behind  him,  and  the  papers  to 
prove  it,  who  turns  up  on  the  Zone  and  can't  help 
getting  on  if  he  takes  the  trouble  to  climb  to  head- 
quarters. Or  there  are  the  special  cases,  like  Marley 
for  instance. 

Marley  blew  in  one  summer  day  from  some  un- 
charted point  of  the  compass  with  nothing  but  his 
hat  and  a  winning  smile  on  his  brassy  features,  and 
naturally  soon  drifted  up  the  "  Thousand  Stairs." 
But  Marley  was  n't  exactly  of  that  manly  build  that 
takes  "the  Chief"  and  "the  Captain"  by  storm; 
and  there  were  suggestions  on  his  young-old  face  that 
he  had  seen  perhaps  a  trifle  too  much  of  life.  So 
he  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  brow  several  times  at 


148  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

the  third-story  landing  only  to  find  as  often  that 
the  expected  vacancy  was  not  yet.  Meanwhile  the 
tropical  days  slipped  idly  by  and  Marley's  "  stand- 
in  "  with  the  owners  of  I.  C.  C.  hotel-books  began  to 
strain  and  threaten  to  break  away,  and  everything 
sort  of  gave  up  the  ghost  and  died.  Everything, 
that  is,  except  the  winning  smile.  'Til  one  after- 
noon with  only  that  asset  left  Marley  met  the  de- 
partment head  on  the  grass-bordered  path  in  front 
of  the  Episcopal  chapel,  just  where  the  long  descent 
ends  and  a  man  begins  to  regain  his  tractable  mood, 
and  said  Marley: 

"  Say,  looka  here,  Chief.  It 's  a  question  of  eats 
with  me.  We  can't  put  this  thing  off  much  longer 
or—" 

Which  is  why  that  evening's  train  carried  Marley, 
with  a  police  badge  and  the  little  flat  volume  bound 
in  imitation  leather  in  his  pocket,  out  to  some  sub- 
station commander  along  the  line  for  the  corporal  in 
charge  to  break  in  and  hammer  down  into  that  fin- 
ished product,  a  Zone  Policeman. 

Incidentally  Marley  also  illustrated  some  months 
later  one  of  the  special  ways  of  getting  off  the  force. 
It  was  still  simpler.  Going  "  on  pass  "  to  Colon  to 
spend  a  little  evening,  Marley  neglected  to  leave  his 
No.  38  behind  in  the  squad-room,  according  to  Z.  P. 
rules.  Which  was  careless  of  him.  For  when  his 
spirits  reached  that  stage  where  he  recognized  what 
sport  it  would  be  to  see  the  "  Spigoty  "  policemen  of 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  149 

Bottle  Alley  dance  a  western  cancan  he  bethought 
him  of  the  No.  38.  Which  accounts  for  the  fact 
that  the  name  of  Marley  can  no  longer  be  found  on 
the  rolls  of  the  Z.  P.  But  all  this  is  sadly  antici- 
pating. 

Obviously,  you  will  say,  a  force  recruited  from  such 
dissimilar  sources  must  be  a  thing  of  wide  and  sundry 
experience.  And  obviously  you  are  right.  Could  a 
man  catch  up  the  Z.  P.  by  the  slack  of  the  khaki 
riding  breeches  and  shake  out  their  stories  as  a  giant 
in  need  of  carfare  might  shake  out  their  loose 
change,  then  might  he  retire  to  some  sunny  hillside 
of  his  own  and  build  him  a  sound-proof  house  with 
a  swimming  pool  and  a  revolving  bookcase  and  a 
stable  of  riding  horses,  and  cause  to  be  erected  on 
the  front  lawn  a  kneeling-place  where  publishers 
might  come  and  bow  down  and  beat  their  foreheads 
on  the  pavement. 

There  are  men  in  the  Z.  P.  who  in  former  years 
have  played  horse  with  the  startled  markets  of  great 
American  cities ;  men  whose  voices  will  boom  forth 
in  the  pulpit  and  whisper  sage  councils  in  the  pro- 
fessional in  years  to  come ;  men  whom  doting  parents 
have  sent  to  Harvard  —  on  whom  it  failed  to  take, 
except  on  their  clothes  —  men  who  have  gone  down 
into  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  and  crawled 
on  hands  and  knees  through  the  brakish  red  brook 
that  runs  at  the  bottom  and  come  out  again  smiling 
on  the  brink  above.  Careers  more  varied  than  Mexi- 


150  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

can  sombreros  one  might  hear  in  any  Z.  P.  squad- 
room  —  were  not  the  Z.  P.  so  much  more  given  to 
action  than  to  autobiography. 

They  bore  little  resemblance  to  what  I  had  ex- 
pected. My  mental  picture  of  an  American  police- 
man was  that  conglomerate  average  one  uncon- 
sciously imbibes  from  a  distant  view  of  our  city  forces, 
and  by  comparison  with  foreign, —  a  heavy-footed, 
discourteous,  half-fanatical,  half-irreligious  clubber 
whose  wits  are  as  slow  as  his  judgment  is  honest.  In- 
stead of  which  I  found  the  Z.  P.  composed  almost 
without  exception  of  good-hearted,  well  set  up  young 
Americans  almost  all  of  military  training.  I  had 
anticipated,  from  other  experiences,  a  constant  bick- 
ering and  a  general  striving  to  make  life  unendur- 
able for  a  new-comer.  Instead  I  was  constantly 
surprised  at  the  good  fellowship  that  existed  through- 
out the  force.  There  were  of  course  some  healthy 
rivalries ;  there  were  no  angels  among  them  —  or  I 
should  have  fled  the  Isthmus  much  earlier;  but 
for  the  most  part  the  Z.  P.  resembled  nothing  so 
much  as  a  big  happy  family.  Above  all  I  had  ex- 
pected early  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  "  graft," 
that  shifty-eyed  monster  which  we  who  have  lived  in 
large  American  cities  think  of  as  sitting  down  to  din- 
ner with  the  force  in  every  mess-hall.  Graft?  Why 
a  Zone  Policeman  could  not  ride  on  a  P.  R.  R.  train 
in  full  uniform  when  off  duty  without  paying  his 
fare,  though  he  was  expected  to  make  arrests  if  nee- 


A  Zone  Police  Launch 


Off  on  Mounted  Patrol 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  153 

essary  and  stop  behind  with  his  prisoner.  Compared 
indeed  with  almost  any  other  spot  on  the  broad 
earth's  surface  "  graft  "  eats  slim  meals  on  the  Canal 
Zone. 

The  average  Zone  Policeman  would  arrest  his  own 
brother  —  which  is  afteir"al!~~abmrt  the  supreme  test 
of  good  policehood.  He  is  not  a  man  who  likes  to 
keep  "  blotters,"  make  out  accident  reports  and  such 
things,  that  can  be  of  interest  only  to  those  with 
clerks'  and  bookkeepers'  souls. 

He  would  far  rather  be  battling  with  sun,  man,  and 
vegetation  in  the  jungle.  He  is  of  those  who  gen- 
uinely and  frankly  have  no  desire  to  become  rich, 
and  "successful,"  a  lack  of  ambition  that  for- 
mal society  cannot  understand  and  fancies  a  weak- 
ness. 

I  had  still  another  police  surprise  during  these 
swivel-chair  days.  I  discovered  there  was  on  the 
Zone  a  yellow  tailor  who  made  Beau  Brummel  uni- 
forms at  $7.50,  compared  with  which  the  $5  ready- 
made  ones  were  mere  clothes.  All  my  life  long 
I  had  been  laboring  under  the  delusion  that  a 
uniform  is  merely  a  uniform.  But  one  lives  and 
learns. 

There  are  few  left,  I  suppose,  who  have  not  heard 
that  gray-bearded  story  of  the  American  in  the 
Philippines  who  called  his  native  servant  and  com- 
manded : 

"  Juan,  va  fetch  the  caballo  from  the  prado  and  — 


154  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

and  —  oh,  saddle  and  bridle  him.  Damn  such  a  lan- 
guage anyway !  I  'm  sorry  I  ever  learned  it." 

This  is  capped  on  the  Zone  by  another  that  is  not 
only  true  but  strikingly  typical.  An  American  boss 
who  had  been  much  annoyed  by  unforeseen  absences 
of  his  workmen  pounced  upon  one  of  his  Spaniards 
one  morning  crying: 

"  When  you  know  por  la  noche  that  you  're  not 
going  to  trabaja  por  la  manana  why  in  —  don't 
you  habla  ?  " 

"  Sf,  senor,"  replied  the  Spaniard. 

By  which  it  may  be  gathered  that  linguistic  ability 
on  the  Zone  is  on  a  par  with  that  in  other  U.  S. 
possessions.  Of  the  seven  of  us  assigned  to  plain- 
clothes  duty  on  this  strip  of  seventy-two  nationali- 
ties there  was  a  Colombian,  a  gentleman  of  Swedish 
birth,  a  Chinaman  from  Martinique,  and  a  Greek, 
all  of  whom  spoke  English,  Spanish,  and  at  least  one 
other  language.  Of  the  three  native  Americans  two 
spoke  only  their  mother  tongue.  In  the  entire  white 
uniformed  force  I  met  only  Lieutenant  Long  and  the 
Corporal  in  charge  of  Miraflores  who  could  seriously 
be  said  to  speak  Spanish,  though  I  am  informed  there 
were  one  or  two  others. 

This  was  not  for  a  moment  any  fault  of  the  Z.  P. 
It  comes  back  to  our  government  and  beyond  that  to 
the  American  people.  With  all  our  expanding  over 
the  surface  of  the  earth  in  the  past  fourteen  years 
there  still  hangs  over  us  that  old  provincial  buck- 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  155 

woods  bogie,  "  English  is  good  enough  for  me." 
We  have  only  to  recall  what  England  does  for  those 
of  her  colonial  servants  who  want  seriously  to  study 
the  language  of  some  portion  of  her  subjects  to  have 
something  very  like  the  blush  of  shame  creep  up  the 
back  of  our  necks.  Child's  task  as  is  the  learning  of 
a  foreign  language,  provincial  old  Uncle  Sam  just 
flat-foots  along  in  the  same  old  way,  expecting  to 
govern  and  judge  and  lead  along  the  path  of  civili- 
zation his  foreign  colonies  by  bellowing  at  them  in 
his  own  nasal  drawl  and  treating  their  tongue  as  if 
it  were  some  purely  animal  sound.  He  is  well  per- 
sonified by  Corporal  ,  late  of  the  Z.  P.  The 

Corporal  had  served  three  years  in  the  Philippines 
and  five  on  the  Zone,  and  could  not  ask  for  bread 
in  the  Spanish  tongue.  "  Why  don't  you  learn  it?  " 
some  one  asked  one  day. 

"  Awe,"  drawled  the  Corporal,  "  what 's  the  use 
o'  goin'  t'  all  that  trouble?  If  you  have  t*  have  any 
interpretin'  done  all  you  got  t'  do  is  t'  call  in  a 
nigger." 

Uncle  Sam  not  merely  lends  his  servants  no  assist- 
ance to  learn  the  tongues  of  his  colonies,  but  should 
one  of  his  subjects  appear  bearing  that  extraordi- 
nary accomplishment  he  gives  him  no  preference  what- 
ever, no  better  position,  not  a  copper  cent  more 
salary;  and  if  things  get  to  a  pass  where  a  linguist 
must  be  hired  he  gives  the  job  to  the  first  citizen 
that  comes  along  who  can  make  a  noise  that  is  evi- 


156  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

dently  not  English,  or  more  likely  still  to  some  for- 
eigner who  talks  English  like  a  mouthful  of  Hun- 
garian goulash.  It  is  not  the  least  of  the  reasons 
why  foreign  nations  do  not  take  us  as  seriously  as 
they  ought,  why  our  colonials  do  not  love  us  and, 
what  is  of  far  greater  importance,  do  not  advance 
under  our  rule  as  they  should. 

Meanwhile  there  had  gradually  been  reaching  me 
"  through  the  proper  channels,"  as  everything  does 
on  the  Zone  even  to  our  ice-water,  the  various  cou- 
pon-books and  the  like  indispensable  to  Zone  life 
and  the  proper  pursuit  of  plain-clothes  duty.  Dis- 
tressing as  are  statistics  the  full  comprehension 
of  what  might  follow  requires  the  enumeration  of 
the  odds  and  ends  I  was  soon  carrying  about  with 
me.  % 

A  brass-check ;  police  badge ;  I.  C.  C.  hotel  coupon- 
book  ;  Commissary  coupon-book ;  "  ISO-Trip  Ticket  " 
(a  booklet  containing  blank  passes  between  any  sta- 
tions on  the  P.  R.  R.,  to  be  filled  out  by  holder) 
Mileage  book  (purchased  by  employees  at  half  rates 
of  2£  cents  a  mile  for  use  when  traveling  on  personal 
business)  "  24-Trip  Ticket  "  (a  free  courtesy  pass  to 
all  "  gold  "  employees  allowing  one  monthly  round 
trip  excursion  over  any  portion  of  the  line)  Freight- 
train  pass  for  the  P.  R.  R. ;  Dirt-train  and  locomotive 
pass  for  the  Pacific  division;  ditto  for  the  Central 
division;  likewise  for  the  Atlantic  division;  (in  short 
about  everything  on  wheels  was  free  to  the  "  gum- 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  159 

shoe  "  except  the  "  yellow  car ")  Passes  admitting 
to  docks  and  steamers  at  either  end  of  the  Zone ;  note- 
book ;  pencil  or  pen ;  report  cards  and  envelopes  (one 
of  which  the  plain-clothes  man  must  fill  out  and  for- 
ward to  headquarters  "  via  train-guard  "  wherever 
night  may  overtake  him  — "  the  gum-shoe's  day's 
work,"  as  the  idle  uniformed  man  facetiously  dubs 
it). 

Furthermore  the  man  out  of  uniform  is  popularly 
supposed  never  to  venture  forth  among  the  populace 
without : 

Belt,  holster,  cartridges,  and  the  No.  38  "  Colt " 
that  reminds  you  of  a  drowning  man  trying  to  drag 
you  down;  handcuffs;  police  whistle;  blackjack  (offi- 
cially he  never  carries  this ;  theoretically  there  is  not 
one  on  the  Isthmus.  But  the  "  gum-shoe  "  natur- 
ally cannot  twirl  a  police  club,  and  it  is  not  always 
policy  to  shoot  every  refractory  prisoner).  Then 
if  he  chances  to  be  addicted  to  the  weed  there  is  the 
cigarette-case  and  matches ;  a  watch  is  frequently 
convenient;  and  incidentally  a  few  articles  of  cloth- 
ing are  more  or  less  indispensable  even  in  the  dry 
season.  Now  and  again,  too,  a  bit  of  money  does  not 
come  amiss.  For  though  the  Canal  Zone  is  a  Utopia 
where  man  lives  by  work-coupons  alone,  the  detective 
can  never  know  at  what  moment  his  all-embracing 
duties  may  carry  him  away  into  the  foreign  land  of 
Panama ;  and  even  were  that  possibility  not  always 
staring  him  in  the  face,  in  the  words  of  "  Gorgona 


160  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

Red,"  "  You  've  got  t'  have  money  fer  yer  booze, 
ain't  ye?" 

Which  seems  also  to  be  Uncle  Sam's  view  of  the 
matter.  Far  and  away  more  important  than  any  of 
the  plain-clothes  equipment  thus  far  mentioned  is  the 
"  expense  account."  It  is  unlike  the  others  in  that 
it  is  not  visible  and  tangible  but  a  mere  condition,  a 
pleasant  sensation  like  the  consciousness  of  a  good 
appetite  or  a  youthful  fullness  of  life.  The  only 
reality  is  a  form  signed  by  the  czar  of  the  Zone  him- 
self tucked  away  among  I.  C.  C.  financial  archives. 
That  authorizes  the  man  assigned  to  special  duty  in 
plain  clothes  to  be  reimbursed  money  expended  in 
the  pursuance  of  duty  up  to  the  sum  of  $60  per 
month ;  though  't  is  said  that  the  interpretation  of 
this  privilege  to  the  full  limit  is  not  unlikely  to 
cause  flames  of  light,  thunderous  rumblings,  and 
other  natural  phenomena  in  the  vicinity  of  Empire 
and  Culebra.  But  please  note  further;  these  ex- 
penditures may  be  only  "  for  cab  or  boat  hire,  meals 
away  from  home,  and  liquor  and  cigars!  "  Plainly 
the  "  gum-shoe  "  should  be  a  bachelor. 

Fortunately,  however,  the  proprietor  of  the  ex- 
pense account  is  not  required  personally  to  consume 
it  each  month.  It  is  designed  rather  to  win  the 
esteem  of  bar-tenders,  loosen  the  tongues  of  sus- 
pects, libate  the  thirsty  stool-pigeon,  and  prime  other 
accepted  sources  of  information.  But  beware!  Ex- 
ceeding care  in  filling  out  the  account  of  such  expendi- 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  161 

tures  at  the  month's  end.  Carelessness  leads  a 
hunted  life  on  the  Canal  Zone.  Take,  for  instance, 
the  slight  error  of  my  friend  —  who,  having  made 
such  expenditure  in  Colon,  by  a  slip  of  the  pen,  or 
to  be  nice,  of  the  typewriter,  sent  in  among  three 
score  and  ten  items  the  following: 

Feb.  4/  2  bots  beer;  Cristobal 50c 

and  in  the  course  of  time  found  said  voucher  again 
on  his  desk  with  a  marginal  note  of  mild-eyed  won- 
der and  more  than  idle  curiosity,  in  the  handwriting 
of  a  man  very  high  up  indeed; 

Where  can  you  buy  beer  in  Cristobal? 

All  this  and  more  I  learned  in  the  swivel-chair 
waiting  for  orders,  reading  the  latest  novel  that  had 
found  its  way  to  Ancon  station,  and  receiving  fre- 
quent assurances  that  I  should  be  quite  busy  enough 
once  I  got  started.  Opposite  sat  Lieutenant  Long 
pouring  choice  bits  of  sub-station  orders  into  the 
'phone  : 

"  Don't  you  believe  it.  That  was  no  accident. 
He  did  n't  lose  everything  he  had  in  every  pocket 
rolling  around  drunk  in  the  street.  He  's  been  sys- 
tematically frisked.  Sabe  frisked?  Get  on  the  job 
and  look  into  it." 

For  the  Lieutenant  was  one  of  those  scarce  and 
enviable  beings  who  can  live  with  his  subordinates  as 


162  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

man  to  man,  yet  never  find  an  ounce  of  his  authority 
missing  when  authority  is  needed. 

Now  and  then  a  Z.  P.  story  whiled  away  the  time. 

There  was  the  sad  case  of  Corporal in  charge 

of  station.  Early  one  Sunday  afternoon  the 

Corporal  saw  a  Spaniard  leading  a  goat  along  the 
railroad.  Naturally  the  day  was  hot.  The  Cor- 
poral sent  a  policeman  to  arrest  the  inhuman  wretch 
for  cruelty  to  animals.  When  he  had  left  the  cul- 
prit weeping  behind  padlocks  he  went  to  inspect  the 
goat,  tied  in  the  shade  under  the  police  station. 

"  Poor  little  beast,"  said  the  sympathetic  Corporal, 
as  he  set  before  it  a  generous  pan  of  ice-water  fresh 
from  the  police  station  tank.  The  goat  took  one 
long,  eager,  grateful  draught,  turned  over  on  its 
back,  curled  up  like  the  sensitive-plants  of  Panama 
jungles  when  a  finger  touches  them,  and  departed  this 

vale  of  tears.  But  Corporal  was  an  artist  of 

the  first  rank.  Not  only  did  he  "  get  away  with  it  " 
under  the  very  frowning  battlements  of  the  judge, 
but  sent  the  Spaniard  up  for  ten  days  on  the  charge 
against  him.  Z.  P.'s  who  tell  the  story  assert  that 
the  Spaniard  did  not  so  much  mind  the  sentence  as 
the  fact  that  the  Corporal  got  his  goat. 

Then  there  was  "  the  Mystery  of  the  Knocked-out 
Niggers."  Day  after  day  there  came  reports  from 
a  spot  out  along  the  line  that  some  negro  laborer 
strolling  along  in  a  perfectly  reasonable  manner 
suddenly  lay  down,  threw  a  fit,  and  went  into  a  coma- 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  163 

tose  state  from  which  he  recovered  only  after  a  day  or 
two  in  Ancon  or  Colon  hospitals.  The  doctors  gave 
it  up  in  despair.  As  a  last  resort  the  case  was 
turned  over  to  a  Z.  P.  sleuth.  He  chose  him  a  hid- 
ing-place as  near  as  possible  to  the  locality  of  the 
strange  manifestation.  For  half  the  morning  he 
sweltered  and  swore  without  having  seen  or  heard 
the  slightest  thing  of  interest  to  an  old  "  Zoner." 
A  dirt-train  rumbled  by  now  and  then.  He  strove 
to  amuse  himself  by  watching  the  innocent  games  of 
two  little  Spanish  switch-boys  not  far  away.  They 
were  enjoying  themselves,  as  guileless  childhood  will, 
between  their  duties  of  letting  a  train  in  and  out  of 
the  switch.  Well  on  in  the  second  half  of  the  morn- 
ing another  diminutive  Iberian,  a  water-boy,  brought 
his  compatriots  a  pail  of  water  and  carried  off  the 
empty  bucket.  The  boys  hung  over  the  edge  of 
the  pail  a  sort  of  wire  hook,  the  handle  of  their 
home-made  drinking-can,  no  doubt,  and  went  on 
playing. 

By  and  by  a  burly  black  Jamaican  in  shirt-sleeves 
loomed  up  in  the  distance.  Now  and  then  as  he 
advanced  he  sang  a  snatch  of  West  Indian  ballad. 
As  he  espied  the  "  switcheros  "  a  smile  broke  out  on 
his  features  and  he  hastened  forward  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  water-pail.  In  a  working  species  of  Spanish  he 
made  some  request  of  the  boys,  the  while  wiping  his 
ebony  brow  with  his  sleeve.  The  boys  protested. 
Evidently  they  had  lived  on  the  Zone  so  long  they 


164  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

had  developed  a  color  line.  The  negro  pleaded. 
The  boys,  sitting  in  the  shade  of  their  wigwam,  still 
shook  their  heads.  One  of  them  was  idly  tapping 
the  ground  with  a  broom-handle  that  had  lain  beside 
him.  The  negro  glanced  up  and  down  the  track, 
snatched  up  the  boys'  drinking  vessel,  of  which  the 
wire  hooked  over  the  pail  was  not  after  all  the  handle, 
and  stooped  to  dip  up  a  can  of  water.  The  little 
fellow  with  the  broom-stick,  ceasing  a  useless  pro- 
test, reached  a  bit  forward  and  tapped  dreamily  the 
rail  in  front  of  him.  The  Jamaican  suddenly  sent 
the  can  of  water  some  rods  down  the  track,  danced  an 
artistic  buck-and-wing  shuffle  on  the  thin  air  above 
his  head,  sat  down  on  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  after 
trying  a  moment  in  vain  to  kick  the  railroad  out  by 
the  roots,  lay  still. 

By  this  time  the  sleuth  was  examining  the  broom- 
handle.  From  its  split  end  protruded  an  inch  of 
telegraph  wire,  which  chanced  also  to  be  the  same 
wire  that  hung  over  the  edge  of  the  galvanized  bucket. 
Close  in  front  of  the  innocent  little  fellows  ran  a 
"third  rail!" 

Then  suddenly  this  life  of  anecdote  and  leisure 
ended.  There  was  thrust  into  my  hands  a  type- 
written sheet  and  I  caught  the  next  thing  on  wheels 
out  to  Corozal  for  my  first  investigation.  It  was 
one  of  the  most  commonplace  cases  on  the  Zone.  Two 
residents  of  my  first  dwelling-place  on  the  Isthmus 
had  reported  the  loss  of  $150  in  U.  S.  gold. 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  165 

Easier  burglary  than  this  the  world  does  not  offer. 
Every  bachelor  quarters  on  the  Isthmus,  completely 
screened  in,  is  entered  by  two  or  three  screen-doors, 
none  of  which  is  or  can  be  locked.  In  the  building 
are  from  twelve  to  twenty-four  wide-open  rooms  of 
two  or  three  occupants  each,  no  three  of  whom  know 
one  another's  full  names  or  anything  else,  except  that 
they  are  white  Americans  and  ipso  facto  (so  runs 
Zone  philosophy)  above  dishonesty.  The  quarters 
are  virtually  abandoned  during  the  day.  Two  ne- 
gro janitors  dawdle  about  the  building,  but  they, 
too,  leave  it  for  two  hours  at  mid-day.  Moreover 
each  of  the  forty-eight  or  more  occupants  probably 
has  several  friends  or  acquaintances  or  enemies  who 
may  drift  in  looking  for  him  at  any  hour  of  the  day 
or  night.  No  negro  janitor  would  venture  to  ques- 
tion a  white  American's  errand  in  a  house ;  Panama 
is  below  the  Mason  and  Dixon  line.  In  practice  any 
white  American  is  welcome  in  any  bachelor  quarters 
and  even  to  a  bed,  if  there  is  one  unoccupied,  though 
he  be  a  total  stranger  to  all  the  community.  Add 
to  this  that  the  negro  tailor's  runner  often  has  per- 
mission to  come  while  the  owner  is  away  for  suits 
in  need  of  pressing,  that  John  Chinaman  must  come 
and  claw  the  week's  washing  out  from  under  the  bed 
where  the  "  rough-neck  "  kicked  it  on  Saturday  night, 
that  there  are  a  dozen  other  legitimate  errands  that 
bring  persons  of  varying  shades  into  the  building, 
and  above  all  that  the  bachelors  themselves,  after 


166  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

the  open-hearted  old  American  fashion,  have  the 
all  but  universal  habit  of  tossing  gold  and  silver,  rail- 
road watches  and  real-estate  bonds,  or  anything  else 
of  whatever  value,  indifferently  on  the  first  clear  cor- 
ner that  presents  itself.  Precaution  is  troublesome 
and  un-American.  It  seems  a  fling  at  the  character 
of  your  fellow  bachelors  —  and  in  the  vast  majority 
of  Zone  cases  it  would  be.  But  it  is  in  no  sense  sur- 
prising that  among  the  many  thousands  that  swarm 
upon  the  Isthmus  there  should  be  some  not  averse  to 
increasing  their  income  by  taking  advantage  of  these 
guileless  habits  and  bucolic  conditions.  There  are 
suggestions  that  a  few  —  not  necessarily  whites  — 
make  a  profession  of  it.  No  wonder  "  our  chief 
trouble  is  burglary  "  and  has  been  ever  since  the  Z. 
P.  can  remember.  Summed  up,  the  pay-day  gold 
that  has  thus  faded  away  is  perhaps  no  small  amount ; 
compared  with  what  it  might  have  been  under  pre- 
vailing conditions  it  is  little. 

As  for  detecting  such  felonies,  police  officers  the 
world  around  know  that  theft  of  coin  of  the  realm 
in  not  too  great  quantities  is  virtually  as  safe  a  pro- 
fession as  the  ministry.  The  Z.  P.  plain-clothes 
man,  like  his  fellows  elsewhere,  must  usually  be  con- 
tent in  such  cases  with  impressing  on  the  victim  his 
Sherlockian  astuteness,  gathering  the  available  facts 
of  the  case,  and  return  to  typewrite  his  report  thereof 
to  be  carefully  filed  away  among  headquarters  ar- 
chives. Which  is  exactly  what  I  had  to  do  in  the 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  167 

case  in  question,  diving  out  the  door,  notebook  in 
hand,  to  catch  the  evening  train  to  Panama. 

I  was  growing  accustomed  to  Ancon  and  even  to 
Ancon  police-mess  when  I  strolled  into  headquarters 
on  Saturday,  the  sixteenth,  and  the  Inspector  flung 
a  casual  remark  over  his  shoulder: 

"  Better  get  your  stuff  together.  You  're  trans- 
ferred to  Gatun." 

I  was  already  stepping  into  a  cab  en  route  for  the 
evening  train  when  the  Inspector  chanced  down  the 
hill. 

"  New  Gatun  is  pretty  bad  on  Saturday  nights," 
he  remarked.  (All  too  well  I  remembered  it.) 
"  The  first  time  a  nigger  starts  anything  run  him 
in,  and  take  all  the  witnesses  in  sight  along." 

"  That  reminds  me ;  I  have  n't  been  issued  a  gun 
or  handcuffs  yet,"  I  hinted. 

"Hell's  fire,  no?"  queried  the  Inspector.  "Tell 
the  station  commander  at  Gatun  to  fix  you  up." 


CHAPTER  VI 

I  SCRIBBLED  myself  a  ticket  and  was  soon  roll- 
ing northward,  greeting  acquaintances  at 
every  station.  The  Zone  is  like  Egypt;  whoever 
moves  must  travel  by  the  same  route.  At  Pedro 
Miguel  and  Cascadas  armies  of  locomotives  —  the 
"  mules  "  of  the  man  from  Arkansas  —  stood  steam- 
ing and  panting  in  the  twilight  after  their  day's  la- 
bor and  the  wild  race  homeward  under  hungry 
engineers.  As  far  as  Bas  Obispo  this  busy,  teeming 
Isthmus  seemed  a  native  land;  beyond,  was  like  en- 
tering into  foreign  exile.  It  is  a  common  Zone  ex- 
perience that  only  the  locality  one  lives  in  during  his 
first  weeks  ever  feels  like  "  home." 

The  route,  too,  was  a  new  one.  From  Gorgona 
the  train  returned  crab-wise  through  Matachin  and 
across  the  sand  dyke  that  still  holds  the  Chagres 
out  of  the  "  cut,"  and  halted  at  Gamboa  cabin. 
Day  was  dying  as  we  rumbled  on  across  the  iron 
bridge  above  the  river  and  away  into  the  fresh 
jungle  night  along  the  rock-ballasted  "  relocation." 
The  stillness  of  this  less  inhabited  half  of  the  Zone 
settled  down  inside  the  car  and  out,  the  evening  air 
of  summer  caressing  almost  roughly  through  the 

open  windows.     The  train  continued  its  steady  way 

168 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  169 

almost  uninterruptedly,  for  though  new  villages 
were  springing  up  to  take  the  place  of  the  old  sink- 
ing into  desuetude  and  the  flood  along  with  the 
abandoned  line,  there  were  but  two  where  once  were 
eight.  We  paused  at  the  new  Frijoles  and  the  box- 
car town  of  Monte  Lirio  and,  skirting  on  a  higher 
level  with  a  wide  detour  on  the  flanks  of  thick 
jungled  and  forested  hills  what  is  some  day  to  be 
Gatun  Lake,  drew  up  at  7 :30  at  Gatun. 

I  wandered  and  inquired  for  some  time  in  a  black 
night  —  for  the  moon  was  on  the  graveyard  shift 
that  week  —  before  I  found  Gatun  police  station 
on  the  nose  of  a  breezy  knoll.  But  for  "  Davie," 
the  desk-man,  who  it  turned  out  was  also  to  be  my 
room-mate,  and  a  few  wistful-eyed  negroes  in  the 
steel-barred  room  in  the  center  of  the  building,  the 
station  was  deserted.  "  Circus,"  said  the  desk-man 
briefly.  When  I  mentioned  the  matter  of  weapons 
he  merely  repeated  the  word  with  the  further  infor- 
mation that  only  the  station  commander  could  issue 
them. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  therefore  but  to  ramble 
out  armed  with  a  lead  pencil  into  a  virtually  un- 
known town  riotous  with  liquor  and  negroes  and  the 
combination  of  Saturday  night,  circus  time,  and  the 
aftermath  of  pay-day,  and  to  strut  back  and  forth 
in  a  way  to  suggest  that  I  was  a  perambulating  ar- 
senal. But  though  I  wandered  a  long  two  hours 
into  every  hole  and  corner  where  trouble  might  have 


170  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

its  breeding-place,  nothing  but  noise  took  place  in 
my  sight  and  hearing.  I  turned  disgustedly  away 
toward  the  tents  pitched  in  a  grassy  valley  between 
the  two  Gatuns.  At  least  there  was  a  faint  hope 
that  the  equestrienne  might  assault  the  ring-master. 

I  approached  the  tent  flap  with  a  slightly  quick- 
ening pulse.  World-wide  and  centuries  old  as  is 
the  experience,  personally  I  was  about  to  "  spring 
my  badge  "  for  the  first  time.  Suppose  the  door- 
tender  should  refuse  to  honor  it  and  force  me  to 
impress  upon  him  the  importance  of  the  Z.  P. — 
without  a  gun?  Outwardly  nonchalant  I  strolled 
in  between  the  two  ropes.  Proprietor  Shipp  looked 
up  from  counting  his  winnings  and  opened  his 
mouth  to  shout  "  ticket !  "  I  flung  back  my  coat,  and 
with  a  nod  and  a  half -wink  of  wisdom  he  fell  back 
again  to  computing  his  lawful  gains. 

By  the  way,  are  not  you  who  read  curious  to 
know,  even  as  I  for  long  years  wondered,  where  a 
detective  wears  his  badge?  Know  then  that  long 
and  profound  investigation  among  the  Z.  P.  seems 
to  prove  conclusively  that  as  a  general  and  all  but 
invariable  rule  he  wears  it  pinned  to  the  lining  of  his 
coat,  or  under  his  lapel,  or  on  the  band  of  his 
trousers,  or  on  the  breast  of  his  shirt,  or  in  his  hip 
pocket,  or  up  his  sleeve,  or  at  home  on  the  piano,  or 
riding  around  at  the  end  of  a  string  in  the  baby's 
nursery;  though  as  in  the  case  of  all  rules  this  one 
too  has  its  exceptions. 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  171 

Entertainments  come  rarely  to  Gatun.  The  one- 
ringed  circus  was  packed  with  every  grade  of  so- 
ciety from  gaping  Spanish  laborers  to  haughty  wives 
of  dirt-train  conductors,  among  whom  it  was  not 
hard  to  distinguish  in  a  far  corner  the  uniformed 
sergeant  in  command  of  Gatun  and  the  long  lean 
corporal  tied  in  a  bow-line  knot  at  the  alleged  wit 
of  the  versatile  but  solitary  clown  who  changed  his 
tongue  every  other  moment  from  English  to  Span- 
ish. But  the  end  was  already  near;  excitement  was 
rising  to  the  finale  of  the  performance,  a  wrestling 
match  between  a  circus  man  and  "  Andy  "  of  Pedro 
Miguel  locks.  By  the  time  I  had  found  a  leaning- 
place  it  was  on  —  and  the  circus  man  of  course  was 
conquered,  amid  the  gleeful  howling  of  "  rough- 
necks," who  collected  considerable  sums  of  money 
and  went  off  shouting  into  the  black  night,  in  quest 
of  a  place  where  it  might  be  spent  quickly.  It 
would  be  strange  indeed  if  among  all  the  thousands 
of  men  in  the  prime  of  life  who  are  digging  the 
canal  at  least  one  could  not  be  found  who  could  sub- 
jugate any  champion  a  wandering  circus  could  carry 
among  its  properties.  I  took  up  again  the  random 
tramping  in  the  dark  unknown  night ;  till  it  was 
two  o'clock  of  a  Sunday  morning  when  at  last  I 
dropped  my  report-card  in  the  train-guard  box  and 
climbed  upstairs  to  the  cot  opposite  "  Davie,"  sleep- 
ing the  silent,  untroubled  sleep  of  a  babe. 

I   was   barely   settled   in   Gatun   when   the   train- 


172  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

guard  handed  me  one  of  those  frequent  typewritten 
orders  calling  for  the  arrest  of  some  straggler  or  de- 
serter from  the  marine  camp  of  the  Tenth  Infantry. 
That  very  morning  I  had  seen  "  the  boss  "  of  cen- 
sus days  off  on  his  vacation  to  the  States  —  from 
which  he  might  not  return  —  and  here  I  was  coldly 
and  peremptorily  called  upon  to  go  forth  and  arrest 
and  deliver  to  Camp  Elliott  on  its  hill  "  Mac,"  the 
pride  of  the  census,  with  a  promise  of  $25  reward 
for  the  trouble.  "Mac"  desert?  It  was  to  laugh. 
But  naturally  after  six  weeks  of  unceasing  repeti- 
tion of  that  pink  set  of  questions  "  Mac's  "  throat 
was  a  bit  dry  and  he  could  scarcely  be  expected  to 
return  at  once  to  the  humdrum  life  of  camp  without 
spending  a  bit  of  that  $5  a  day  in  slaking  a  tropical 
thirst.  Indeed  I  question  whether  any  but  the 
prudish  will  loudly  blame  "  Mac  "  even  because  he 
spent  it  a  bit  too  freely  and  brought  up  in  Empire 
dispensary.  Word  of  his  presence  there  soon 
drifted  down  to  the  wily  plain-clothes  man  of  Em- 
pire district.  But  it  was  a  hot  noonday,  the  dis- 
pensary lies  somewhat  up  hill,  and  the  uniformless 
officer  of  the  Zone  metropolis  is  rather  thickly  built. 
Wherefore,  stowing  away  this  private  bit  of  infor- 
mation under  his  hat,  he  told  himself  with  a  yawn, 
"  Oh,  I'll  drag  him  in  later  in  the  day,"  and  drifted 
down  to  a  wide-open  door  on  Railroad  Avenue  to 
spend  a  bit  of  the  $25  rewarii  in  off-setting  the  heat. 
Meanwhile  "  Mac,"  feeling  somewhat  recovered  from 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  173 

his  financial  extravagance,  came  sauntering  out  of 
the  dispensary  and,  seeing  his  curly-headed  friend 
strolling  a  beat  not  far  away,  naturally  cried  out, 
"  Hello,  Eck !  "  And  what  could  Eck  say,  being  a 
reputable  Zone  policeman,  but: 

"  Why,  hello,  Mac !  How  they  f  ramin'  up  ? 
Consider  yourself  pinched." 

Which  was  lucky  for  "  Mac."  For  Eck  had  once 
worn  a  marine  hat  over  his  own  right  eye  and, 
he  knew  from  melancholy  experience  that  the  $25 
was  no  government  generosity,  but  "  Mac's  "  own 
involuntary  contribution  to  his  finding  and  deliv- 
ery; so  managed  to  slip  most  of  it  back  into 
"  Mac's  "  hands. 

Long,  long  after,  more  than  six  weeks  after  in 
fact,  I  chanced  to  be  in  Bas  Obispo  with  a  half- 
hour  to  spare,  and  climbed  to  the  flowered  and  many- 
roaded  camp  on  its  far-viewing  hilltop  that  falls 
sheer  away  on  the  east  into  the  canal.  In  one  of 
the  airy  barracks  I  found  Renson,  cards  in  hand, 
clear-skinned  and  "  fit  "  now,  thanks  to  the  regular 
life  of  this  adult  nursery,  though  his  lost  youth  was 
gone  for  good.  And  "  Mac  "  ?  Yes,  I  saw  "  Mac  " 
too  —  or  at  least  the  back  of  his  head  and  shoulders 
through  the  screen  of  the  guard-house  where  Ren- 
son  pointed  him  out  to  me  as  he  was  being  locked 
up  again  after  a  day  of  shoveling  sand. 

The  first  days  in  Gatun  called  for  little  else  than 
patrol  duty,  without  fixed  hours,  interspersed  with 


174  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

an  occasional  loaf  on  the  second-story  veranda  of 
the  police-station  overlooking  the  giant  locks ;  close 
at  hand  was  the  entrance  to  the  canal,  up  which 
came  slowly  barges  loaded  with  crushed  stone  from 
Porto  Bello  quarry  twenty  miles  east  along  the  coast 
or  sand  from  Nombre  de  Dios,  twice  as  distant, 
while  further  still,  spread  Limon  Bay  from  which 
swept  a  never-ending  breeze  one  could  wipe  dry  on 
as  on  a  towel.  So  long  as  he  has  in  his  pocket  no 
typewritten  report  with  the  Inspector's  scrawl  across 
it,  "  For  investigation  and  report,"  the  plain-clothes 
man  is  virtually  his  own  commander,  with  few  duties 
beside  trying  to  be  in  as  many  parts  of  his  district 
at  once  as  possible  and  the  ubiquitous  duty  of  "  keep- 
ing in  touch  with  headquarters."  So  I  wandered 
and  mingled  with  all  the  life  of  the  vicinity,  exactly 
as  I  should  have  done  had  I  not  been  paid  a  salary 
to  do  so.  By  day  one  could  watch  the  growth  of 
the  great  locks,  the  gradual  drowning  of  little  green, 
new-made  islands  beneath  the  muddy  still  waters  of 
Gatun  Lake,  tramp  out  along  jungle-flanked  country 
roads,  through  the  Mindi  hills,  or  down  below  the 
old  railroad  to  where  the  cayucas  that  floated  down 
the  Chagres  laden  with  fruit  came  to  land  on  the 
ever  advancing  edge  of  the  waters.  With  night 
things  grew  more  compact.  From  twilight  till 
after  midnght  I  prowled  in  and  out  through  New 
Gatun,  spilled  far  and  wide  over  its  several  hills, 
watching  the  antics  of  negroes,  pausing  to  listen  to 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  175 

their  guitars  and  their  boisterous  merriment,  with 
an  eye  and  ear  ever  open  for  the  unlawful.  When 
I  drifted  into  a  saloon  to  see  who  might  be  spending 
the  evening  out,  the  bar-tender  proved  he  had  the 
advantage  of  me  in  acquaintance  by  crying: 
"Hello,  Franck!  What  ye  having?"  and  showing 
great  solicitude  that  I  get  it.  After  which  I  took 
up  the  starlit  tramp  again,  to  run  perhaps  into 
some  such  perilous  scene  as  on  that  third  evening. 
A  riot  of  contending  voices  rose  from  a  building 
back  in  the  center  of  a  block,  with  now  and  then 
the  sickening  thump  of  a  falling  body.  I  approached 
noiselessly,  likewise  weaponless,  peeped  in  and  found 
—  four  negro  bakers  stripped  to  the  waist  indus- 
triously kneading  to-morrow's  bread  and  discussing 
in  profoundest  earnest  the  object  of  the  Lord  in 
creating  mosquitoes.  Beyond  the  native  town,  as  an 
escape  from  all  this,  there  was  the  back  country 
road  that  wound  for  a  mile  through  the  fresh  night 
and  the  droning  jungle,  yet  instead  of  leading  off 
into  the  wilderness  of  the  interior  swung  around  to 
American  Gatun  on  its  close-cropped  hills. 

I  awoke  one  morning  to  find  my  name  bulletined 
among  those  ordered  to  report  for  target  test.  A 
fine  piece  of  luck  was  this  for  a  man  who  had  scarcely 
fired  a  shot  since,  aged  ten,  he  brought  down  with 
an  air-gun  an  occasional  sparrow  at  three  cents  a 
head.  We  took  the  afternoon  train  to  Mt.  Hope 
on  the  edge  of  Colon  and  trooped  away  to  a  little 


176  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

plain  behind  "  Monkey  Hill,"  the  last  resting-place 
of  many  a  "  Zoner."  The  Cristobal  Lieutenant, 
father  of  Z.  P.,  was  in  charge,  and  here  again  was 
that  same  Z.  P.  absence  of  false  dignity  and  the 
genuine  good-fellowship  that  makes  the  success  of 
your  neighbor  as  pleasing  as  your  own. 

"Shall  I  borrow  a  gun,  Lieutenant?"  I  asked 
when  I  found  myself  "  on  deck." 

"  Well,  you  '11  have  to  use  your  own  judgment  as 
to  that,"  replied  the  Lieutenant,  busy  pasting  stick- 
ers over  holes  in  the  target. 

The  test  was  really  very  simple.  All  you  had  to 
do  was  to  cling  to  one  end  of  a  No.  38  horse-pistol, 
point  it  at  the  bull's-eye  of  a  target,  hold  it  in  that 
position  until  you  had  put  five  bullets  into  said 
bull's-eye,  repeat  that  twice  at  growing  distances, 
mortally  wound  ten  times  the  image  of  a  Martin- 
ique negro  running  back  and  forth  across  the  field, 
and  you  had  a  perfect  score.  Only,  simple  as  it 
was,  none  did  it,  not  even  old  soldiers  with  two  or 
three  "  hitches  "  in  the  army.  So  I  had  to  be  con- 
tent with  creeping  in  on  the  second  page  of  a  seven- 
page  list  of  all  the  tested  force  from  "  the  Chief  " 
to  the  latest  negro  recruit. 

The  next  evening  I  drifted  into  the  police  station 
to  find  a  group  of  laborers  from  the  adjoining  camps 
awaiting  me  on  the  veranda  bench,  because  the  desk- 
man  "  did  n't  sabe  their  lingo."  They  proved  upon 
examination  to  be  two  Italians  and  a  Turk,  and  their 


Down  the  beat  in  New  Gatun,  the  Caribbean  in  the  distance 


The  winding  back  road  between  the  two  surviving  Gatuns 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  179 

story  short,  sad,  but  by  no  means  unusual.  Upon 
returning  from  work  one  of  the  Italians  had  found 
the  lock  hinges  of  his  ponderously  padlocked  tin 
trunk  hanging  limp  and  screwless,  and  his  pay-day 
roll  of  some  $30  missing  from  the  crown  of  a  hat 
stuffed  with  a  shirt  securely  packed  away  in  the 
deepest  corner  thereof.  The  Turk  was  similarly  un- 
able to  account  for  the  absence  of  his  $33  savings 
safely  locked  the  night  before  inside  a  pasteboard 
suitcase;  unless  the  fact  that,  thanks  to  some  sort 
of  surgical  operation,  one  entire  side  of  the  grip 
now  swung  open  like  a  barn-door  might  prove  to 
have  something  to  do  with  the  case.  The  $33  had 
been,  for  further  safety's  sake,  in  Panamanian  silver, 
suggesting  a  burglar  with  a  wheelbarrow. 

The  mysterious  detective  work  began  at  once. 
Without  so  much  as  putting  on  a  false  beard  I  re- 
paired to  the  scene  of  the  nefarious  crime.  It  was 
the  usual  Zone  type  of  laborers'  barracks.  A 
screened  building  of  one  huge  room,  it  contained 
two  double  rows  of  three-tier  "  standee "  canvas 
bunks  on  gas-pipes.*  Around  the  entire  room,  close 
under  the  sheet-iron  roof,  ran  a  wooden  platform 
or  shelf  reached  by  a  ladder  and  stacked  high  with 
the  tin  trunks,  misshapen  bundles,  and  pressed-paper 
suitcases  containing  the  worldly  possessions  of  the 
fifty  or  more  workmen  around  the  rough  table  be- 
low. 

Theoretically   not    even    an   inmate   thereof   may 


180  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

enter  a  Zone  labor-camp  during  working  hours. 
Practically  the  West  Indian  janitors  to  whom  is 
left  the  enforcement  of  this  rule  are  nothing  if  not 
fallible.  In  the  course  of  the  second  day  I  unearthed 
a  second  Turk  who,  having  chanced  the  morning 
before  to  climb  to  the  baggage  shelf  for  his  razor 
and  soap  preparatory  to  welcoming  a  fellow  coun- 
tryman to  the  Isthmus,  had  been  mildly  startled  to 
step  on  the  shoulder-blade  of  a  negro  of  given 
length  and  proportions  lying  prone  behind  the 
stacked-up  impedimenta.  The  latter  explained  both 
his  presence  in  a  white  labor-camp  and  his  uncon- 
ventional posture  by  asserting  that  he  was  the  "  mos- 
quito man,"  and  shortly  thereafter  went  away  from 
there  without  leaving  either  card  or  address. 

By  all  my  library  training  in  detective  work  the 
next  move  obviously  was  to  find  what  color  of  cig- 
arette ashes  the  Turk  smoked.  Instead  I  blundered 
upon  the  absurdly  simple  notion  of  trying  to  locate 
the  negro  of  given  length  and  proportions. 
The  real  "  mosquito  man " —  one  of  that  dark 
band  that  spends  its  Zone  years  with  a  wire 
hook  and  a  screened  bucket  gathering  evidence 
against  the  defenseless  mosquito  for  the  sani- 
tary department  to  gloat  over  —  was  found  not  to 
fit  the  model  even  in  hue.  Moreover,  "  mosquito 
men  "  are  not  accustomed  to  carry  their  devotion 
to  duty  to  the  point  of  crawling  under  trunks  in 
their  quest. 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  181 

For  a  few  days  following,  the  hunt  led  me  through 
all  Gatun  and  vicinity.  Now  I  found  myself  racing 
across  the  narrow  plank  bridges  above  the  yawning 
gulf  of  the  locks,  with  far  below  tiny  men  and  toy 
trains,  now  in  and  out  among  the  cathedral-like 
flying  buttresses,  under  the  giant  arches  past  star- 
ing signs  of  "  DANGER  !  "  on  every  hand  —  as  if  one 
could  not  plainly  hear  its  presence  without  the 
posting.  I  descended  to  the  very  floor  of  the  locks, 
far  below  the  earth,  and  tramped  the  long  half- 
mile  of  the  three  flights  between  soaring  concrete 
walls.  Above  me  rose  the  great  steel  gates,  stand- 
ing ajar  and  giving  one  the  impression  of  an  open- 
ing in  the  Great  Wall  of  China  or  of  a  sky-scraper 
about  to  be  swung  lightly  aside.  On  them  resounded 
the  roar  of  the  compressed-air  riveters  and  all  the 
way  up  the  sheer  faces,  growing  smaller  and  smaller 
as  they  neared  the  sky,  were  McClintic-Marshall  men 
driving  into  place  red-hot  rivets,  thrown  at  them 
viciously  by  negroes  at  the  forges  and  glaring  like 
comets'  tails  against  the  twilight  void. 

The  chase  sent  me  more  than  once  stumbling  away 
across  rock-tumbled  Gatun  dam  that  squats  its  vast 
bulk  where  for  long  centuries,  eighty-five  feet  below, 
was  the  village  of  Old  Gatun  with  its  proud  church 
and  its  checkered  history,  where  Morgan  and  Peru- 
vian viceroys  and  "  Forty-niners "  were  wont  to 
pause  from  their  arduous  journeyings.  They  call 
it  a  dam.  It  is  rather  a  range  of  hills,  a  part  and 


182  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

portion  of  the  highlands  that,  east  and  west,  en- 
close the  valley  of  the  Chagres,  its  summit  resembling 
the  terminal  yards  of  some  great  city.  There  was 
one  day  when  I  sought  a  negro  brakeman  attached 
to  a  given  locomotive.  I  climbed  to  a  yard-master's 
tower  above  the  Spillway  and  the  yard-master,  tak- 
ing up  his  powerful  field-glasses,  swept  the  horizon, 
or  rather  the  dam,  and  discovered  the  engine  for 
me  as  a  mariner  discovers  an  island  at  sea. 

"  Er  —  would  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  us 
where  we  can  find  this  Gatun  dam  we  've  heard  so 
much  about?  "  asked  a  party  of  four  tourists,  half 
and  half  as  to  sex,  who  had  been  wandering  about  on 
it  for  an  hour  or  so  with  puzzled  expressions  of 
countenance.  They  addressed  themselves  to  a  busy 
civil  engineer  in  leather  leggings  and  rolled  up 
shirt  sleeves. 

"  I  'm  sorry  I  have  n't  time  to  use  the  instrument," 
replied  the  engineer  over  his  shoulder,  while  he  wig- 
wagged his  orders  to  his  negro  helpers  scattered 
over  the  landscape,  "  but  as  nearly  as  I  can  tell  with 
the  naked  eye,  you  are  now  standing  in  the  exact 
center  of  it." 

The  result  of  all  this  sweating  and  sight-seeing 
was  that  some  days  later  there  was  gathered  in  a 
young  Barbadian  who  had  been  living  for  months  in 
and  about  Gatun  without  any  visible  source  of  in- 
come whatever  —  not  even  a  wife.  The  Turk  and 
the  camp  janitor  identified  him  as  the  culprit.  But 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  183 

the  primer  lesson  the  police  recruit  learns  is  that 
it  is  one  thing  to  believe  a  man  guilty  and  quite 
another  to  convince  a  judge  —  the  most  skeptical 
being  known  to  zoology  —  of  that  perfectly  appar- 
ent fact.  With  the  suspect  behind  bars,  therefore, 
I  continued  my  underground  activities,  with  the  re- 
sult that  when  at  length  I  took  the  train  at  New 
Gatun  one  morning  for  the  court-room  in  Cristobal 
I  loaded  into  a  second-class  coach  six  witnesses  ag- 
gregating five  nationalities,  ready  to  testify  among 
other  things  to  the  interesting  little  point  that  the 
defendant  had  a  long  prison  record  in  Barbados. 

When  the  echo  of  the  black  policeman's  "  Oye ! 
Oye ! "  had  died  away  and  the  little  white-haired 
judge  had  taken  his  "bench,"  I  made  the  discovery 
that  I  was  present  not  in  one,  but  in  four  capacities, 
—  as  arresting  officer,  complainant,  interpreter,  and 
to  a  large  extent  prosecuting  attorney.  To  swear 
a  Turk  who  spoke  only  Turkish  through  another 
Turk,  who  mangled  a  little  Spanish,  for  a  judge  who 
would  not  recognize  a  non- American  word  from  the 
voice  of  a  steam-shovel,  with  a  solemn  "  So  Help  Me 
God ! "  to  clinch  and  strengthen  it  when  the  witness 
was  a  follower  of  the  prophet  of  Medina  —  or  no- 
body —  was  not  without  its  possibilities  of  humor. 
The  trial  proceeded;  the  witnesses  witnessed  in  their 
various  tongues,  the  perspiring  arresting  officer  re- 
duced their  statements  to  the  common  denominator 
of  the  judge's  single  tongue,  and  the  smirking  bul- 


184  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

let-headed  defendant  was  hopelessly  buried  under 
the  evidence.  Wherefore,  when  the  shining  black 
face  of  his  lawyer,  retained  during  the  two  minutes 
between  the  "  Oye ! "  and  the  opening  of  the  case, 
rose  above  the  scene  to  purr: 

"  Your  Honor,  the  prosecution  has  shown  no  case. 
I  move  the  charge  against  my  client  be  quashed." 

I  choked  myself  just  in  time  to  keep  from  gasping 
aloud,  "  Well,  of  all  the  nerve !  "  Never  will  I  learn 
that  the  lawyer's  profession  admits  lying  on  the 
same  footing  with  truth  in  the  defense  of  a  culprit. 

"  Cause  shown,"  mumbled  the  Judge  without  look- 
ing up  from  his  writing,  "  defendant  bound  over 
for  trial  in  the  circuit  court." 

A  week  later,  therefore,  there  was  a  similar  scene 
a  story  higher  in  the  same  building.  Here  on  Thurs- 
days sits  one  of  the  three  members  of  the  Zone 
Supreme  Court.  Jury  trial  is  rare  on  the  Isthmus 
—  which  makes  possibly  for  surer  justice.  This 
time  there  was  all  the  machinery  of  court  and  I 
appeared  only  in  my  legal  capacity.  The  judge,  a 
man  still  young,  with  an  astonishingly  mobile  face 
that  changed  at  least  once  a  minute  from  a  furrowy 
scowl  with  great  pouting  lips  to  a  smile  so  broad  it 
startled,  sat  in  state  in  the  middle  of  three  judicial 
arm-chairs,  and  the  case  proceeded.  Within  an 
hour  the  defendant  was  standing  up,  the  cheery  grin 
still  on  his  black  countenance,  to  be  sentenced  to 
two  years  and  eight  months  in  the  Zone  penitentiary 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  185 

at  Culebra.  A  deaf  man  would  have  fancied  he  was 
being  awarded  some  prize.  One  of  the  never-ending 
surprises  on  the  Zone  is  the  apparent  indifference 
of  negro  prisoners  whether  they  get  years  or  go 
free.  Even  if  they  testify  in  their  own  behalf  it 
is  in  a  listless,  detached  way,  as  if  the  matter 
were  of  no  importance  anyway.  But  the  glance 
they  throw  the  innocent  arresting  officer  as  they  pass 
out  on  their  way  to  the  barb-wire  enclosure  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  Zone  capital  tells  another  story. 
There  are  members  of  the  Z.  P.  who  sleep  with  a 
gun  under  their  pillow  because  of  that  look  or  a 
muttered  word.  But  even  were  I  nervous  I  should 
have  been  little  disturbed  at  the  glare  in  this  case, 
for  it  will  probably  DC  a  long  walk  from  Culebra 
penitentiary  to  where  I  am  thirty-two  months  from 
that  morning. 

A  holiday  air  brooded  over  all  Gatun  and  the 
country-side.  Workmen  in  freshly  washed  clothing 
lolled  in  the  shade  of  labor-camps,  black  Britishers 
were  gathering  in  flat  meadows  fitted  for  the  national 
game  of  cricket,  far  and  wide  sounded  the  care-free 
laughter  and  chattering  of  negroes,  while  even 
within  Gatun  police  station  leisure  and  peace  seemed 
almost  in  full  possession. 

The  morning  "  touch "  with  headquarters  over, 
therefore,  I  scrambled  away  across  the  silent  yawn- 
ing locks  and  the  trainless  and  workless  dam  to  the 
Spillway,  over  which  already  some  overflow  from  the 


186  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

lake  was  escaping  to  the  Caribbean.     My   friends 

"  Dusty  "  and  H had  carried  their  canoe  to 

the  Chagres  below,  and  before  nine  we  were  off  down 
the  river.  It  was  a  day  that  all  the  world  north 
of  the  Tropic  of  Cancer  could  not  equal;  just  the 
weather  for  a  perfect  "  day  off."  A  plain-clothes 
man,  it  is  true,  is  not  supposed  to  have  days  off. 
Some  one  might  run  away  with  the  Administration 
Building  on  the  edge  of  the  Pacific  and  the  telephone 
wires  be  buzzing  for  me  —  with  the  sad  result  that 
a  few  days  later  there  would  be  posted  in  Zone  po- 
lice stations  where  all  who  turned  the  leaves  might 
read: 

Special  Order  No 

Having  been  found  Guilty  of  charges  of 

Neglect  of  Duty 

preferred  against  him  by  his  commanding  officer 
First-class  Policeman  No.  88 
is  hereby  fined  $2. 


Chief  of  Division. 

But  shades  of  John  Aspinwall!  Should  even  a 
detective  work  on  such  a  Sunday?  Surely  no  crim- 
inal would  —  least  of  all  a  black  one.  Moreover 
these  forest-walled  banks  were  also  part  of  my  beat. 

The  sun  was  hot,  yet  the  air  of  that  ozone-rich 
quality  for  which  Panama  is  famous.  For  headgear 
we  had  caps ;  and  did  not  wear  those,  though  barely 
a  few  puffy,  snow-white  clouds  ventured  out  into 


C    _" 


bt  - 

C  '— 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  189 

the  vast  chartlcss  sky  all  the  brilliant  day  through. 
Then  the  river;  who  could  describe  this  lower  reach 
of  the  Chagres  as  it  curves  its  seven  deep  and  placid 
miles  from  where  Uncle  Sam  releases  it  from  custody, 
to  the  ocean.  Its  jungled  banks  were  without  a 
break,  for  the  one  or  two  clusters  of  thatch  and 
reed  huts  along  the  way  are  but  a  part  of  the  living 
vegetation.  Now  and  then  we  had  glimpses  across 
the  tree-tops  of  brilliant  green  jungle  hills  further 
inland,  everywhere  were  huge  splendid  trees,  the 
stack-shaped  mango,  the  soldier-erect  palm  heavy, 
yet  unburdened,  with  copoanuts.  Some  fish  resem- 
bling the  porpoise  rose  here  and  there,  back  and 
forth  above  the  shadows  winged  snow-white  cranes 
so  slender  one  wondered  the  sea  breeze  did  not  wreck 
them.  Above  all  the  quiet  and  peace  and  content- 
ment of  a  perfect  tropical  day  enfolded  the  land- 
scape in  a  silence  only  occasionally  disturbed  by  the 
cry  of  a  passing  bird.  Once  a  gasoline  launch  deep- 
laden  with  Sunday-starched  Americans,  snorted  by, 
bound  likewise  to  Fort  Lorenzo  at  the  river's  mouth ; 
and  we  lay  back  in  our  soft,  rumpled  khaki  and 
drowsily  smiled  our  sympathy  after  them.  When 
they  had  drawn  on  out  of  earshot  life  began  to 
return  to  the  banks  and  nature  again  took  posses- 
sion of  the  scene.  Alligators  abounded  once  on  this 
lower  Chagres,  but  they  have  grown  scarce  now,  or 

shy,    and   though   we    sat   with   H 's    automatic 

rifle  across  our  knees  in  turns  we  saw  no  more  than 


190  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

a  carcass  or  a  skeleton  on  the  bank  at  the  foot  of 
the  sheer  wall  of  impenetrable  verdure. 

Till  at  length  the  sea  opened  on  our  sight  through 
the  alley- way  of  jungle,  and  a  broad  inviting  cocoa- 
nut  grove  nodded  and  beckoned  on  our  left.  Instead 
we  paddled  out  across  the  sandbar  to  play  with  the 
surf  of  the  Atlantic,  but  found  it  safer  to  return 
and  glide  across  the  little  bay  to  the  drowsy  straw 
and  tin  village.  Here  —  for  the  mouth  of  the 
Chagres  like  its  source  lies  in  a  foreign  land  —  a 
solitary  Panamanian  policeman  in  the  familiar  Arc- 
tic uniform  enticed  us  toward  the  little  thatched 
office,  and  house,  and  swinging  hammock  of  the 
alcalde  to  register  our  names,  and  our  business  had 
we  had  any.  So  deep-rooted  was  the  serenity  of 
the  place  that  even  when  "  Dusty,"  in  all  Zone  inno- 
cence, addressed  the  white-haired  little  mulatto  as 
"  hombre  "  he  lost  neither  his  dignity  nor  his  tem- 
per. 

The  policeman  and  a  brown  boy  of  merry  breed 
went  with  us  up  the  grassy  rise  to  the  old  fort. 
In  its  musty  vaulted  dungeons  were  still  the  massive, 
rust-corroded  irons  for  feet,  waist  and  neck  of  pris- 
oners of  the  old  brutal  days ;  blind  owls  stared  upon 
us ;  once  the  boy  brought  down  with  his  honda,  or 
slung-shot,  one  of  the  bats  that  circled  uncannily 
above  our  heads.  In  dank  corners  were  mounds  of 
worthless  powder ;  the  bakery  that  once  fed  the 
miserable  dungeon  dwellers  had  crumbled  in  upon 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  191 

itself.  Outside  great  trees  straddled  and  split  the 
massive  stone  walls  that  once  commanded  the  en- 
trance to  the  Chagres,  jungle  waved  in  undisputed 
possession  in  its  earth-filled  moat,  even  the  old  can- 
non and  heaped  up  cannon-balls  lay  rust-eaten  and 
dejected,  like  decrepit  old  men  who  have  long  since 
given  up  the  struggle. 

We  came  out  on  the  nose  of  the  fort  bluff  and 
had  before  and  below  us  and  underfoot  all  the  old 
famous  scene,  for  centuries  the  beginning  of  all 
trans-Isthmian  travel, —  £he  scalloped  surf -washed 
shore  with  its  dwindling  palm  groves  curving  away 
into  the  west,  the  Chagres  pushing  off  into  the 
jungled  land.  We  descended  to  the  beach  of  the 
outer  bay  and  swam  in  the  salt  sea,  and  the  police- 
man, scorning  the  launch  party,  squatted  a  long  hour 
in  the  shade  of  a  tree  above  in  tropical  patience. 
Then  with  "  sour  "  oranges  for  thirst  and  nothing 
for  hunger  —  for  Lorenzo  has  no  restaurant  —  we 
turned  to  paddle  our  way  homeward  up  the  Chagres, 
that  bears  the  salt  taste  of  the  sea  clear  to  the 
Spillway.  Whence  one  verse  only  of  a  stanza  by 
the  late  bard  of  the  Isthmus  struck  a  false  note  on 
our  ears ; 

Then  go  away  if  you  have  to, 
Then  go  away  if  you  will ! 
To  again  return  you  will  always  yearn 
While  the  lamp  is  burning  still. 


192  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

You  've  drunk  the  Chagres  water 
And  the  mango  eaten  free, 
And,  strange  though  it  seems, 
It  will  haunt  your  dreams 
This  Land  of  the  Cocoanut  Tree. 

No  catastrophe  had  befallen  during  my  absence. 
The  same  peaceful  sunny  Sunday  reigned  in  Gatun; 
new-laundered  laborers  were  still  lolling  in  the  shade 
of  the  camps,  West  Indians  were  still  batting  at 
interminable  balls  with  their  elongated  paddles  in 
the  faint  hope  of  deciding  the  national  game  before 
darkness  settled  down.  Then  twilight  fell  and  I 
set  off  through  the  rambling  town  already  boisterous 
with  church  services.  Before  the  little  sub-station 
a  swarm  of  negroes  was  pounding  tamborines  and 
bawling  lustily: 

Oh,  y5  mus'  be  a  lover  of  de  Lard 

Or  yo  cahn't  go  t*  Heaven  when  yo  di-ie. 

Further  on  a  lady  who  would  have  made  ebony  seem 
light-gray  bowed  over  an  organ,  while  a  burly  Jamai- 
can blacker  than  the  night  outside  stood  in  the 
vestments  of  the  Church  of  England,  telling  his  ver- 
sion of  the  case  in  a  voice  that  echoed  back  from  the 
town  across  the  gully,  as  if  he  would  drown  out  all 
rival  sects  and  arguments  by  volume  of  sound.  The 
meeting-house  on  the  next  corner  was  thronged  with 
a  singing  multitude,  tamborines  scattered  among 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  193 

them  and  all  clapping  hands  to  keep  time,  even  to 
the  pastor,  who  let  the  momentum  carry  on  and  on 
into  verse  after  verse  as  if  he  had  not  the  self-sacri- 
fice to  stop  it,  while  outside  in  the  warm  night 
another  crowd  was  gathered  at  the  edge  of  the 
shadows  gazing  as  at  a  vaudeville  performance. 
How  well-fitted  are  the  various  brands  of  Christian- 
ity to  the  particular  likings  of  their  "  flocks." 
The  strongest  outward  manifestation  of  the  reli- 
gion of  the  West  Indian  black  is  this  boisterous 
singing.  All  over  town  were  dusky  throngs  exer- 
cising their  strong  untrained  voices  "  in  de  Lard's 
sarvice  " ;  though  the  West  Indian  is  not  noted  as 
being  musical.  Here  a  preacher  wanting  suddenly 
to  emphasize  a  point  or  clinch  an  argument  swung 
an  arm  like  a  college  cheer  leader  and  the  entire  con- 
gregation roared  forth  with  him  some  well-known 
hymn  that  settled  the  question  for  all  time. 

I  strolled  on  into  darker  High  street.  Suddenly 
on  a  veranda  above  there  broke  out  a  wild  unearthly 
screaming.  Two  negroes  were  engaged  in  savage, 
sanguinary  combat.  Around  them  in  the  dim  light 
thrown  by  a  cheap  tenement  lamp  I  could  make  out 
their  murderous  weapons  —  machetes  or  great  bars 
of  iron  —  slashing  wildly,  while  above  the  din  rose 
screams  and  curses: 

Yo Badgyan,  ah  kill  yo  ! 

I  sped  stealthily  yet  swiftly  up  the  long  steps,  draw- 


194  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

ing  my  No.  38  (for  at  last  I  had  been  issued  one) 
as  I  ran  and  dashed  into  the  heart  of  the  turmoil 
swallowing  my  tendency  to  shout  "  Unhand  him, 
villain !  "  and  crying  instead : 

"  Here,  what  the  devil  is  going  on  here  ?  " 

Whereupon  two  negroes  let  fall  at  once  two  pine 
sticks  and  turned  upon  me  their  broad  childish  grins 
with: 

"  We  only  playin',  sar.  Playin'  single-sticks 
which  we  larn  to  de  army  in  Bahbaydos,  sahgeant." 

Thus  I  wandered  on,  in  and  out,  till  the  night  lost 
its  youth  and  the  last  train  from  Colon  had  dumped 
its  merry  crowd  at  the  station,  then  wound  away 
along  the  still  and  deserted  back  road  through  the 
night-chirping  jungle  between  the  two  surviving 
Gatuns.  There  was  a  spot  behind  the  Division  En- 
gineer's hill  that  I  rarely  succeeded  in  passing  with- 
out pausing  to  drink  in  the  scene,  a  scallop  in 
the  hills  where  several  trees  stood  out  singly  and 
alone  against  the  myriad  starlit  sky,  below  and  be- 
yond the  indistinct  valleys  and  ravines  from  which 
came  up  out  of  the  night  the  chorus  of  the  jungle. 
Further  on,  in  American  Gatun  there  was  a  seat  on 
the  steps  before  a  bungalow  that  offered  more  than 
a  good  view  in  both  directions.  A  broad,  U.  S.- 
tamed  ravine  sank  away  in  front,  across  which  the 
Atlantic  breeze  wafted  the  distance-softened  thrum 
of  guitar,  the  tones  of  fifes  and  happy  negro 
voices,  while  overhead  feathery  gray  clouds  as  con- 


The  lower  reaches  of  the  Chagres 


Gatun  Police  Station 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  197 

cealing  as  a  dancer's  gossamer  hurried  leisurely  by 
across  the  brilliant  face  of  the  moon;  to  the  right 
in  a  free  space  the  Southern  Cross,  tilted  a  bit  awry, 
gleamed  as  it  has  these  untold  centuries  while  ephem- 
eral humans  come  and  pass  their  brief  way. 

It  was  somewhere  near  here  that  Gatun's  dry- 
season  mosquito  had  his  hiding-place.  Rumor  whis- 
pers of  some  such  letter  as  the  following  received 
by  the  Colonel  —  not  the  blue-eyed  czar  at  Culebra 
this  time;  for  you  must  know  there  is  another  Colo- 
nel on  the  Zone  every  whit  as  indispensable  in  his 
sphere : 

GATUN, 26,  1912. 

Dear  Colonel:  — 

I  am  writing  to  call  your  attention  to  a  gross  violation 
of  Sanitary  Ordinance  No.  3621,  to  an  apparent  loop- 
hole in  your  otherwise  excellent  department.  The  cir- 
cumstances are  as  follows; 

On  the  evening  of 24,  as  I  was  sitting  at  the 

roadside  between  Gatun  and  New  Gatun  (some  63  paces 
beyond  house  No.  226)  there  appeared  a  mosquito,  which 
buzzed  openly  and  for  some  time  about  my  ears.  It  was 
probably  merely  a  male  of  the  species,  as  it  showed  no 
tendency  to  bite;  but  a  mosquito  nevertheless.  I  trust 
you  will  take  fitting  measures  to  punish  so  bold  and  inso- 
lent a  violation  of  the  rules  of  your  department. 
I  am,  sir,  very  truly  yours, 

(Mrs.)  HENRY  PECK. 

P.  S.  The  mosquito  may  be  easily  recognized  by  a 
peculiarly  triumphant,  defiant  note  in  his  song. 


198  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

- 

I  cannot  personally  vouch  for  the  above,  but  if 

it  was  received  any  "  Zoner  "  will  assure  you  that 
prompt  action  was  taken.  It  is  well  so.  The 
French  failed  to  dig  the  canal  because  they  could 
not  down  the  mosquito.  Of  course  there  was  the 
champagne  and  the  other  things  that  come  with  it 
—  later  in  the  night.  But  after  all  it  was  the  little 
songful  mosquito  that  drove  them  in  disgrace  back 
across  the  Atlantic. 

Still  further  on  toward  the  hotel  and  a  midnight 
lunch  there  was  one  house  that  was  usually  worth 
lingering  before,  though  good  music  is  rare  on  the 
Zone.  Then  there  was  the  naughty  poker  game  in 
bachelor  quarters  number  —  well,  never  mind  that 
detail  —  to  keep  an  ear  on  in  case  the  pot  grew  large 
enough  to  make  a  worth-while  violation  of  the  law 
that  would  warrant  the  summoning  of  the  mounted 
patrolman. 

Meanwhile  "  cases  "  stacked  up  about  me.  Now 
one  took  me  out  the  hard  U.  S.  highway  that,  once 
out  of  sight  of  the  last  negro  shanty,  rambles  errat- 
ically off  like  the  reminiscences  of  an  old  man 
through  the  half-cleared,  mostly  uninhabited  wilder- 
ness, rampant  green  with  rooted  life  and  almost 
noisy  with  the  songs  of  birds.  Eventually  within  a 
couple  of  hours  it  crossed  Fox  River  with  its  little 
settlement  and  descended  to  Mt.  Hope  police  station, 
where  there  is  a  'phone  with  which  to  "  get  in  touch  " 
again  and  then  a  Mission  rocker  on  the  screened 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  199 

veranda  where  the  breezes  of  the  near-by  Atlantic 
will  have  you  well  cooled  off  before  you  can  catch  the 
shuttle-train  back  to  Gatun. 

Or  another  led  out  across  the  lake  by  the  old 
abandoned  line  that  was  the  main  line  when  first  I 
saw  Gatun.  It  drops  down  beyond  the  station  and 
charges  across  the  lake  by  a  causeway  that  steam- 
shovels  were  already  devouring,  toward  forsaken  Bo- 
hio.  Picking  its  way  across  the  rotting  spiles  of 
culverts,  it  pushed  on  through  the  unpeopled  jungle, 
all  the  old  railroad  gone,  rails,  ties,  the  very  spikes 
torn  up  and  carried  away,  while  already  the  parrots 
screamed  again  in  derision  as  if  it  were  they  who 
had  driven  out  the  hated  civilization  and  taken  pos- 
session again  of  their  own.  A  few  short  months 
and  the  devouring  jungle  will  have  swallowed  up 
even  the  place  where  it  has  been. 

If  it  was  only  the  little  type-written  slip  report- 
ing the  disappearance  of  a  half-dozen  jacks  from 
the  dam,  every  case  called  for  full  investigation. 
For  days  to  come  I  might  fight  my  way  through  the 
encircling  wilderness  by  tunnels  of  vegetation  to 
every  native  hut  for  miles  around  to  see  if  by  any 
chance  the  lost  property  could  have  rolled  thither. 
More  than  once  such  a  hunt  brought  me  out  on  the 
water-tank  knoll  at  the  far  end  of  the  dam,  over- 
looking miles  of  impenetrable  jungle  behind  and 
above  chanting  with  invisible  life,  to  the  right  the 
filling  lake  stretching  across  to  low  blue  ranges 


200  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

dimly  outlined  against  the  horizon  and  crowned  by 
fantastic  trees,  and  all  Gatun  and  its  immense  works 
and  workers  below  and  before  me. 

Times  were  when  duty  called  me  into  the  squalid 
red-lighted  district  of  Colon  and  kept  me  there  till 
the  last  train  was  gone.  Then  there  was  nothing 
left  but  to  pick  my  way  through  the  night  out  along 
the  P.  R.  R.  tracks  to  shout  in  at  the  yard-master's 
window,  "  How  soon  y'  got  anything  goin'  up  the 
line?  "  and,  according  to  the  answer,  return  to  read 
an  hour  or  two  in  Cristobal  Y.  M.  C.  A.  or  push  on 
at  once  into  the  forest  of  box-cars  to  hunt  out  the 
lighted  caboose.  Night  freights  do  not  stop  at 
Gatun,  nor  anywhere  merely  to  let  off  a  "  gum-shoe." 
But  just  beyond  New  Gatun  station  is  a  grade  that 
sets  the  negro  fireman  to  sweating  even  at  midnight 
and  the  big  Mogul  to  straining  every  nerve  and 
sinew,  and  I  did  not  meet  the  engineer  that  could 
drag  his  long  load  by  so  swiftly  but  that  one  could 
easily  swing  off  on  the  road  that  leads  to  the  police 
station. 

Even  on  the  rare  days  when  "  cases  "  gave  out 
there  was  generally  something  to  while  away  the 
monotony.  As,  one  morning  an  American  widely 
known  in  Gatun  was  arrested  on  a  warrant  and, 

chatting  merrily   with  his   friend,   Policeman  , 

strolled  over  to  the  station.  There  his  friend  Cor- 
poral Macey  subdued  his  broad  Irish  smile  and  or- 
dered the  deskman  to  "  book  him  up."  The  latter 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  201 

was  reaching  for  the  keys  to  a  cell  when  the  American 
broke  off  his  pleasant  flow  of  conversation  to  re- 
mark; 

"  All  right,  Corporal,  I  'm  going  over  to  the  house 
to  get  a  few  things  and  write  a  few  letters.  I  '11 
be  back  inside  of  an  hour." 

Whereupon  Corporal  Macey,  being  a  man  of  iron 
self-control,  refrained  from  turning  a  double  back 
sommersault  and  mildly  called  the  prisoner's  atten- 
tion to  a  little  point  of  Zone  police  rules  he  had 
overlooked. 

If  every  other  known  form  of  amusement  abso- 
lutely failed  it  was  still  the  dry,  or  tourist  season, 
and  poured  down  from  the  States  hordes  of  uncon- 
scious comedians,  or  investigators  who  rushed  two 
whole  days  about  the  Isthmus,  taking  care  not  to 
get  into  any  dirty  places,  and  rushed  home  again 
to  tell  an  eager  public  all  about  it.  Sometimes  the 
sight-seers  came  from  the  opposite  end  of  the  earth, 
a  little  band  of  South  Americans  in  tongueless  awe 
at  the  undreamed  monster  of  work  about  them,  yet 
struggling  to  keep  their  fancied  despite  of  the  "  yan- 
qui,"  to  which  the  "  yanqui "  is  so  serenely  indiffer- 
ent. Priests  from  this  southland  were  especially 
numerous.  The  week  never  passed  that  a  group  of 
them  might  not  be  seen  peering  over  the  dizzy  preci- 
pice of  Gatun  locks  and  crossing  themselves  ostenta- 
tiously as  they  turned  away. 

One  does  not,  at  least  in  a  few  months,  feel  the 


202  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 


"  sameness  "  of  climate  at  Panama  and  "  long  again 
to  see  spring  grow  out  of  winter."  Yet  there  is 
something,  perhaps,  in  the  popular  belief  that  even 
northern  energy  evaporates  in  this  tropical  land.  It 
is  not  exactly  that ;  but  certainly  many  a  "  Zoner  " 
wakes  up  day  by  day  with  ambitious  plans,  and  just 
drifts  the  day  through  with  the  fine  weather.  He 
fancies  himself  as  strong  and  energetic  as  in  the 
north,  yet  when  the  time  comes  for  doing  he  is  apt 
to  say,  "  Oh,  I  guess  I  '11  loaf  here  in  the  shade 
half  an  hour  longer,"  and  before  he  knows  it  another 
whole  day  is  charged  up  against  his  meager  credit 
column  with  Father  Time. 

There  came  the  day  early  in  April  when  the  In- 
spector must  go  north  on  his  forty-two  days'  vaca- 
tion. I  bade  him  bon  voyage  on  board  the  8:41 
between  the  two  Gatuns  and  soon  afterward  was 
throwing  together  my  belongings  and  leaving  "  Da- 
vie"  to  enjoy  his  room  alone.  For  Corporal  Cas- 
tillo was  to  be  head  of  the  subterranean  department 
ad  interim,  and  how  could  the  digging  of  the  canal 
continue  with  no  detective  in  all  the  wilderness  of 
morals  between  the  Pacific  and  Culebra?  Thus  it 
was  that  the  afternoon  train  bore  me  away  to  the 
southward.  It  was  a  tourist  train.  A  New  York 
steamer  had  docked  that  morning,  and  the  first-class 
cars  were  packed  with  venturesome  travelers  in  their 
stout  campaign  outfits  in  which  to  rough  it  —  in 
the  Tivoli  and  the  sight-seeing  motors  —  in  their 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  203 

roof-like  cork  helmets  and  green  veils  for  the  terrible 
Panama  heat  —  which  is  sometimes  as  bad  as  in 
northern  New  York. 

The  P.  R.  R.  is  one  of  the  few  railroads  whose 
passengers  may  drop  off  for  a  stroll,  let  the  train 
go  on  without  them,  and  still  take  it  to  their  destina- 
tion. They  have  only  to  descend,  as  I  did,  at  Gam- 
boa  cabin  and  wander  down  into  the  "  cut,"  climb 
leisurely  out  to  Bas  Obispo,  and  chat  with  their 
acquaintances  among  the  Marines  lolling  about  the 
station  until  the  trains  puffs  in  from  its  shuttle- 
back  excursion  to  Gorgona.  The  Zone  landscape 
had  lost  much  of  its  charm.  For  days  past  jungle 
fires  had  been  sweeping  over  it,  doing  the  larger 
growths  small  harm  but  leaving  little  of  the  green- 
ness and  rank  clinging  life  of  other  seasons.  Ev- 
erywhere were  fires  along  the  way,  even  in  the  towns. 
For  quartermasters  —  to  the  rage  of  Zone  house- 
wives were  sending  up  in  clouds  of  smoke  the  grass 
and  bushes  that  quickly  turn  to  breeding-places  of 
mosquitoes  and  disease  with  the  first  rains.  Night 
closed  down  as  we  emerged  from  Miraflores  tunnel; 
soon  we  swung  around  toward  the  houses,  row  upon 
row  and  all  alight,  climbed  the  lower  slope  of  An- 
con  hill,  and  at  seven  I  descended  in  familiar,  cab- 
crowded,  bawling  Panama. 


\Jr 

^V 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  might  be  worth  the  ink  to  say  a  word  about  so- 
cialism on  the  Canal  Zone.  To  begin  with,  there 
is  n't  any  of  course.  No  man  would  dream  of  look- 
ing for  socialism  in  an  undertaking  set  in  motion  by 
the  Republican  party  and  kept  on  the  move  by  the 
regular  army.  But  there  are  a  number  of  little 
points  in  the  management  of  this  private  government 
strip  of  earth  that  savors  more  or  less  faintly  of  the 
Socialist's  program,  and  the  Zone  offers  perhaps  as 
good  a  chance  as  we  shall  ever  have  to  study  some 
phases  of  those  theories  in  practice. 

Few  of  us  now  deny  the  Socialist's  main  criticisms 
of  existing  society  ;  most  of  us  question  his  remedies. 
Some  of  us  go  so  far  as  to  feel  a  sneaking  curiosity 
to  see  railroads  and  similar  purely  public  utilities 
government-owned,  just  to  find  how  it  would  work. 
Down  on  the  Canal  Zone  they  have  a  sort  of  modi- 
fied socialism  where  one  can  watch  much  of  this  un- 
der a  Bell  jar.  There  one  quickly  discovers  that  a 
locomotive  with  the  brief  and  sufficient  information 
"  U.  S."  on  her  tender  flanks  —  or  more  properly  the 
flanks  of  her  tender  —  gives  one  a  swelling  of  the 
chest  no  other  combination  of  letters  could  inspire. 
Thus  far,  too,  theory  seems  to  work  well.  The  service 

204 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 


205 


could  hardly  be  better,  and  recalling  that  under  the 
old  private  system  the  fare  for  the  forty-seven  miles 
across  the  Isthmus  was  $25  with  a  charge  of  ten 
cents  for  every  pound  of  baggage,  the  $2.40  of  to- 
day does  not  seem  particularly  exorbitant. 

The  official  machinery  of  this  private  government 
strip  also  seems  to  run  like  clockwork.  To  be  sure 
the  wheels  even  of  a  clock  grind  a  bit  with  friction 
at  times,  but  the  clock  goes  on  keeping  time  for  all 
that.  The  Canal  Zone  is  the  best  governed  district 
in  the  United  States.  It  is  worth  any  American's 
time  and  sea-sickness  to  run  down  there,  if  only  to 
assure  himself  that  Americans  really  can  govern ;  un- 
til he  does  he  will  not  have  a  very  clear  notion  of  just 
what  good  American  government  means. 

But  before  we  go  any  further  be  it  noted  that  the 
socialism  of  the  Canal  Zone  is  under  a  benevolent  des- 
pot, an  Omnipotent,  Omniscient,  Omnipresent  ruler; 
which  is  perhaps  the  one  way  socialism  would  work,  at 
least  in  the  present  stage  of  human  progress.  The 
three  Onrnfe-gre  combined  in  an  inconspicuous,  white- 
haired  American  popularly  known  on  the  Zone  as 
"  the  Colonel  " —  so  popularly  in  fact  that  an  at- 
tempt to  replace  him  would  probably  "  start  some- 
thing "  among  all  classes  and  races  of  "  Zoners." 
That  he  is  omnipotent  —  on  the  Zone  —  not  many 
will  deny ;  a  few  have  questioned  —  and  landed  in  the 
States  a  week  later  much  less  joyous  but  far  wiser. 
Omniscient  —  well  they  have  even  Chinese  secret-serv- 


206  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

ice  men  on  the  Isthmus,  and  soldiers  and  marines  not 
infrequently  go  out  in  civilian  clothes  under  sealed 
orders ;  to  say  nothing  of  "  the  Colonel's  private 
gum-shoe  "  and  probably  a  lot  of  other  underground 
sources  of  information  neither  you  nor  I  shall  ever 
hear  of.  But  you  must  get  used  to  spies  under 
socialism,  you  know,  until  we  all  wear  one  of  Saint 
Peter's  halos.  Look  at  the  elaborate  system  of  the 
Incas,  even  with  their  docile  and  uninitiative  sub- 
jects. In  the  matter  of  Omnipresence ;  it  would  be 
pretty  hard  to  find  a  hole  on  the  Canal  Zone  where 
you  could  pull  off  a  stunt  of  any  length  or  impor- 
tance without  the  I.  C.  C.  having  a  weather-eye  on 
you.  When  it  comes  to  the  no  less  indispensable  in- 
gredient of  benevolence  one  glimpse  of  those  mild 
blue  eyes  would  probably  reassure  you  in  that  point, 
even  without  the  pleasure  of  watching  the  despot 
sit  in  judgment  on  his  subjects  in  his  castle  office  on 
Sunday  mornings  like  old  Saint  Louis  under  his  oak 
—  though  with  a  tin  of  cigarettes  beside  him  that 
old  Louis  had  to  worry  along  without. 

This  all-powerful  government  insists  on  and  en- 
forces many  of  the  things  which  Americans  as  a 
whole  stand  for, —  Sunday  closing,  suppression  of 
resorts,  forbidding  of  gambling.  But  the  Zone  is  no 
test  whether  these  laws  could  be  genuinely  enforced  in 
a  whole  nation.  For  down  there  Panama  and  Colon 
serve  as  a  sort  of  safety-valve,  where  a  man  can  run 
down  in  an  hour  or  so  on  mileage  or  monthly  pass 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  207 

and  blow  off  steam;  get  rid  of  the  bad  internal  va- 
pors that  might  cause  explosion  in  a  ventless 
society.  This  we  should  not  lose^sight  of  when  we 
boast  that  there  are  few  crimes  and  no  real  resorts 
on  the  Zone.  "  The  Colonel  "  himself  will  tell  you 
there  is  no  gambling.  Yet  it  is  curious  how  many 
of  the  weekly  prizes  of  the  Panama  lottery  find  their 
way  into  the  pockets  of  American  canal  builders,  and 
in  any  Zone  gathering  of  whatever  hour  —  or  sex ! 
—  you  are  almost  certain  to  hear  flitting  back  and 
forth  mysterious  whispers  of  " — have  a  6  and  a  4s 
this  week." 

The  Zone  system  is  work-coupons  for  all;  much 
as  the  Socialist  would  have  it.  Only  the  legitimate 
members  of  the  community  —  the  workers  —  can  live 
in  it  —  long.  You  should  see  the  nonchalant  way  a 
clerk  at  the  government's  Tivoli  hotel  charges  a 
tourist  a  quarter  for  a  cigar  the  government  sells 
for  six  cents  in  its  commissaries.  Mere  money  does 
not  rank  high  in  Zone  society.  It 's  the  labor-cou- 
pon that  counts.  They  sell  cigarettes  at  the  Y.  M. 
C.  A. ;  you  are  in  that  state  where  you  would  give 
your  ticket  home  for  a  smoke.  Yet  when  you  throw 
down  good  gold  or  silver,  black  Sam  behind  the 
showcase  looks  up  at  you  with  that  pitying  cold  eye 
kept  in  stock  for  new-comers,  and  says  wearily: 

"  Cahn't  take  no  money  heah,  boss." 

That  surely  is  a  sort  of  socialism  where  a  slip  of 
paper  showing  merely  that  you  have  done  your  ap- 


208  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

pointed  task  gets  you  the  same  meal  wherever  you 
may  drop  in,  a  total  stranger,  yet  without  being 
identified,  without  a  word  from  any  one,  but  merely 
thrusting  your  coupon-book  at  the  yellow  West  In- 
dian at  the  door  as  you  enter  that  he  may  snatch 
out  so  many  minutes  of  labor.  Drop  in  anywhere 
there  is  a  vacant  bed  and  you  are  perfectly  at  home. 
There  is  the  shower-bath,  the  ice-water,  the  veranda 
rocker  —  you  knew  exactly  what  was  coming  to  you, 
just  what  kind  of  bed,  just  what  vegetables  you 
would  be  served  at  dinner.  It  reminds  one  of  the 
Inca  system  of  providing  a  home  for  every  citizen, 
and  tambos  along  the  way  if  he  must  travel. 

But  it  is  the  same  meal.  That  is  just  the  point. 
There  is  where  you  begin  to  furrow  your  brow  and 
look  more  closely  at  this  splendid  system,  and  fall  to 
wondering  if  that  public  kitchen  of  socialism  would 
not  become  in  time  an  awful  bore.  There  are  some 
things  in  which  we  want  variety  and  originality  and 
above  all  personality.  A  meal  is  a  meal,  I  suppose, 
as  a  cat  is  a  cat;  yet  there  are  many  subtle  little 
things  that  make  the  same  things  distinctly  different. 
When  it  comes  to  dinner  you  want  a  rosy  fat  Ger- 
man or  a  bulky  French  madame  putting  thought  and 
pride  and  attention  into  it;  which  they  will  do  only 
if  they  get  good  coin  of  the  realm  or  similar  ma- 
terial emolument  out  of  it  in  proportion.  No  one 
will  ever  fancy  he  has  a  "  mission  "  to  serve  good 
meals  —  to  the  public. 


"Far  below  were  tiny  men  and  toy  trains" 


'The  week  never  passed  that  a  group  of  priests  from  South   America 
might  not  be  seen  peering  over  the  dizzy  precipice  of  Gatun  locks" 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  211 

In  the  I.  C.  C.  hotels  we  have  a  government  steward 
who  draws  a  good  salary  and  wears  a  nice  white  col- 
lar. But  though  he  is  sometimes  a.  bit  different,  and 
succeeds  in  making  his  hotel  so,  it  is  only  in  degree. 
He  is  not  a  great  frequenter  of  the  dining-room ;  at 
times  one  wonders  just  what  his  activities  are.  Cer- 
tainly it  is  not  the  planning  of  meals,  for  the  I.  C.  C. 
menu  is  as  fixed  and  automatic  as  if  it  had  been  taken 
from  a  stone  slab  in  the  pyramids.  A  poor  meal 
neither  turns  his  hair  white  nor  cuts  down  his  in- 
come. Frequently,  especially  if  he  is  English  and 
certainly  if  he  has  been  a  ship's  steward,  the  negro 
waiters  seem  to  run  his  establishment  without  inter- 
ference. Dinner  hours,  for  example,  are  from  11 
to  1.  But  beware  the  glare  of  the  waiter  at  whose 
table  you  sit  down  at  12:50.  He  slams  cold  rubbish 
at  you  from  the  discard  and  snatches  it  away  again 
before  you  have  time  to  find  you  can't  eat  it.  You 
have  your  choice  of  enduring  this  maltreatment  or 
of  unostentatiously  slipping  him  a  coin  and  a  hint 
to  go  cook  you  the  best  he  can  himself.  For  you 
know  that  as  the  closing  hour  approaches  the  cooks 
will  not  have  their  private  plans  interfered  with  by 
accepting  your  order.  Here  again  is  where  the  fat 
German  or  the  French  madame  is  needed  —  with  an 
ox-goad. 

In  other  words  the  tip  system  invented  by 
Pharaoh  and  vitiated  by  quick-rich  Americans  rages 
as  fiercely  in  government  hotels  on  the  Zone  as  in  any 


"  lobster  palace  "  bordering  Broadway  —  worse,  for 
here  the  non-tipper  has  no  living  being  to  advocate 
his  cause.  All  food  is  government  property.  Yet 
I  have  sat  down  opposite  a  man  who  gave  the  govern- 
ment at  the  door  a  work-coupon  identical  with  mine, 
but  who  furthermore  dropped  into  the  waiter's  hand 
"  35  cents  spig  " —  which  is  half  as  bad  as  to  do  it 
in  U.  S.  currency  —  and  while  I  was  gazing  tear- 
fully at  a  misshapen  lump  of  vacunal  gristle  there 
was  set  before  him,  steaming  hot  from  the  govern- 
ment kitchen,  a  porterhouse  steak  which  a  dollar 
bill  would  not  have  brought  him  within  scenting  dis- 
tance of  in  New  York.  Do  not  blame  the  waiter. 
If  he  does  not  slip  an  occasional  coin  to  the  cook  he 
will  invariably  draw  the  gristle,  and  even  occa- 
sional coins  do  not  grow  on  his  waist  band.  It  would 
be  as  absurd  to  charge  it  to  the  cook.  He  probably 
has  a  large  family  to  support,  as  he  would  have  un- 
der socialism.  There  runs  this  story  on  the  Zone, 
vouched  for  by  several: 

A  "  Zoner  "  called  an  I.  C.  C.  steward  and  com- 
plained that  his  waiter  did  not  serve  him  reason- 
ably: 

"  Well,"  sneered  the  steward,  "  I  guess  you  did  n't 
come  across?  " 

"  Come  across !  Why,  damn  you,  I  suppose  you  're 
getting  your  rake-off  too?  " 

"  I  certainly  am,"  replied  the  steward ;  "  What  do 
you  think  I  'm  down  here  for,  me  health  ?  " 


A  Panamanian  Policeman  and  a  Z.  P.  "gum-shoe' 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  215 

Surely  we  can't  blame  it  all  to  the  steward,  or  to 
any  other  individual.  Lay  it  rather  to  human  na- 
ture, that  stumbling-block  of  so  many  varnished  and 
upholstered  systems. 

I  hope  I  am  not  giving  the  impression  that  I.  C.  C. 
hotels  are  unendurable.  "  Stay  home  " —  which  on 
the  Zone  means  always  eat  at  the  same  hotel  table 
—  subsidize  your  waiter  and  you  do  moderately  well. 
But  to  move  thither  and  yon,  as  any  plain-clothes 
man  must,  is  unfortunate.  The  only  difference  then 
is  that  the  next  is  worse  than  the  last.  Whatever 
their  convictions  upon  arrival,  almost  all  Americans 
have  come  down  to  paying  their  waiter  the  regular 
blackmail  of  a  dollar  a  month  and  setting  it  down 
as  one  of  the  unavoidable  evils  of  life.  One  or  two 
I  knew  who  insisted  on  sticking  to  "  principles,"  and 
they  grew  leaner  and  lanker  day  by  day. 

Because  of  these  things  many  an  American  em- 
ployee will  be  found  eating  in  private  restaurants 
of  the  ubiquitous  Chinaman  or  the  occasional  Span- 
iard, though  here  he  must  often  pay  in  cash  instead 
of  in  futures  on  his  labor  —  which  are  so  much 
cheaper  the  world  over.  It  is  sad  enough  to  dine 
on  the  same  old  identical  round  for  months.  But 
how  if  you  were  one  of  those  who  blew  in  on  the 
heels  of  the  last  Frenchman  and  have  been  eating 
it  ever  since?  By  this  time  even  rat-tails  would  be 
a  welcome  change — and  with  genuine  socialism  there 
would  not  even  be  that  escape.  It  is  said  to  be  this 


216  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

hotel  problem  as  much  as  the  perpetual  spring-time 
of  the  Zone  that  so  frequently  reduces  —  with  the 
open  connivance  of  the  government  —  a  building 
housing  forty-eight  quiet,  harmless  bachelors  to  a 
four-family  residence  housing  eight  and  gradually 
upwards;  that  wreaks  such  matrimonious  havoc 
among  the  white-frocked  stenographers  who  come 
down  to  type  and  remain  to  cook. 

Besides  the  hotel  there  is  the  P.  R.  R.  commissary, 
the  government  department  stores.  It  is  likewise 
laundry,  bakery,  ice-factory ;  it  makes  ice-cream, 
roasts  coffee,  sends  out  refrigerator-cars  and  a 
morning  supply  train  to  bring  your  orders  right 
to  your  door  —  oh,  yes,  it  strongly  resembles  what 
Bellamy  dreamed  years  ago.  Only,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  hotel,  there  seems  to  be  a  fly  or  two  in 
the  amber. 

The  laundry  is  tolerable  —  fancy  turning  your 
soiled  linen  over  to  a  railroad  company  —  all  ma- 
chine done  of  course,  as  everything  would  be  under 
socialism,  and  no  come-back  for  the  garment  that  is 
not  hardy  enough  of  constitution  to  stand  the  sys- 
tem. In  the  stores  is  little  or  no  shoddy  material; 
in  general  the  stock  is  the  best  available.  If  a  bis- 
cuit or  a  bolt  of  khaki  is  better  made  in  England 
than  in  the  United  States  the  commissary  stocks 
with  English  goods,  which  is  unexpected  broad- 
mindedness  for  government  management.  But  while 
prices  are  lower  than  in  Panama  or  Colon  they  are 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  217 

every  whit  as  high  as  in  American  stores ;  and 
most  of  us  know  something  of  the  exorbitant  profit 
our  private  merchants  exact,  particularly  on  manu- 
factured goods.  The  government  claims  to  run  the 
commissary  only  to  cover  cost.  Either  that  is  a 
crude  government  joke  or  there  is  a  colored  gentle- 
man esconced  in  the  coal-bin.  Moreover  if  the  com- 
missary has  n't  the  stuff  you  want  you  had  better 
give  up  wanting,  for  it  has  no  object  in  laying  in  a 
supply  of  it  just  to  oblige  customers.  Its  clerks 
work  in  the  most  languid,  unexcited  manner.  They 
have  no  object  whatever  in  holding  your  trade,  and 
you  can  wait  until  they  are  quite  ready  to  serve  you, 
or  go  home  without.  True,  most  of  them  are  merely 
i»g*oe&,  and  the  few  Americans  at  the  head  of  de- 
partments are  chiefly  provincial  little  fellows  from 
small  towns  whose  notions  of  business  are  rather 
those  of  Podunk,  Mass.,  than  of  New  York.  But 
lolling  about  the  commissary  a  half-hour  hoping  to 
buy  a  box  of  matches,  one  cannot  shake  off  the  con- 
viction that  it  is  the  system  more  than  the  clerks. 
Poets  and  novelists^  and  politicians  may  work  for 
"  glory,"  but  no  man  is  going  to  show  calico  and  fit 
slippers  for  such  remuneration. 

Nor  are  all  the  old  evils  of  the  competitive  method 
banished  from  the  Zone.  In  the  Canal  Record,  the 
government  organ,  the  government  commissary  ad- 
vertised a  sale  of  excellent  $7  rain-coats  at  $1  each. 
The  "  Record  " !  It  is  like  reading  it  in  the  Bible. 


218  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

Witness  the  rush  of  bargain  hunters,  who,  it  proves, 
are  by  no  means  of  one  gender.  Yet  those  splendid 
rain-coats,  as  manager,  clerks,  and  even  negro  sweep- 
ers well  knew  and  could  not  refrain  from  snickering 
to  themselves  at  thought  of,  were  just  as  rain-proof 
as  a  poor  grade  of  cheese-cloth.  I  do  not  speak 
from  hear-say  for  I  was  numbered  among  the  bar- 
gain hunters  — "  recruits  "  are  the  natural  victims, 
and  there  arrive  enough  of  them  each  year  to  get 
rid  of  worthless  stock.  Ten  minutes  after  making 
the  purchase  I  set  out  to  walk  to  Corozal  through 
the  first  mild  shower  of  the  rainy  season  —  and  ar- 
rived there  I  went  and  laid  the  bargain  gently  in 
the  waste-basket  of  Corozal  police  station. 

Thus  does  the  government  sink  to  the  petty  ras- 
calities of  shop-keepers.  Even  a  government  man- 
ager on  a  fixed  salary  —  in  work-coupons  —  will 
descend  to  these  tricks  of  the  trade  to  keep  out  of 
the  clutches  of  the  auditor,  or  to  make  a  "  good 
record."  The  socialist's  answer  perhaps  would  be 
that  under  their  system  government  factories  would 
make  only  perfect  goods.  But  won't  the  factory 
superintendent  also  be  anxious  to  make  a  "  record  "? 
And  even  government  stock  will  deteriorate  on  the 
shelves. 

All  small  things,  to  be  sure;  but  it  is  the  sum  of 
small  things  that  make  up  that  great  complex  thing 
—  Life.  Few  of  us  would  object  to  living  in  that 
ideal  dream  world.  But  could  it  ever  be?  I  have 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  219 

anxiously  asked  this  question  and  hinted  at  these 
little  weaknesses  suggested  by  Zone  experiences  to 
several  Zone  socialists  —  who  are  not  hard  to  find. 
They  merely  answer  that  these  things  have  nothing 
to  do  with  the  case.  But  not  one  of  them  ever  went 
so  far  as  to  demonstrate;  and  though  I  was  born  a 
long  way  north  of  Missouri  I  once  passed  through  a 
corner  of  the  state. 

As  to  the  other  side  of  the  ledger, —  equal  pay 
for  all,  nowhere  is  man  further  from  socialism  than 
on  the  Canal  Zone.  Caste  lines  are  as  sharply 
drawn  as  in  India,  which  should  not  be  unexpected 
in  an  enterprise  largely  in  charge  of  graduates  of 
our  chief  training-school  for  caste.  The  Brahmins 
are  the  "  gold  "  employees,  white  American  citizens 
with  all  the  advantages  and  privileges  thereto  ap- 
pertaining. But  —  and  herein  we  out-Hindu  the 
Hindus  —  the  Brahmin  caste  itself  is  divided  and 
subdivided  into  infinitesimal  gradations.  Every  rank 
and  shade  of  man  has  a  different  salary,  and  exactly 
in  accordance  with  that  salary  is  he  housed,  fur- 
nished, and  treated  down  to  the  least  item, — number 
of  electric  lights,  candle-power,  style  of  bed,  size 
of  bookcase.  His  Brahmin  highness,  "  the  Colonel," 
has  a  palace,  relatively,  and  all  that  goes  with  it. 
The  high  priests,  the  members  of  the  Isthmian  Canal 
Commission,  have  less  regal  palaces.  Heads  of  the 
big  departments  have  merely  palatial  residences. 
Bosses  live  in  well-furnished  dwellings,  conductors 


220  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

are  assigned  a  furnished  house  —  or  quarter  of  a 
house.  Policemen,  artisans,  and  the  common  garden 
variety  of  bachelors  have  a  good  place  to  sleep.  It 
is  doubtful,  to  be  sure,  whether  one-fourth  of  the 
"  Zoners  "  of  any  class  ever  lived  as  well  before  or 
since.  The  shovelman's  wife  who  gives  five-o'clock 
teas  and  keeps  two  servants  will  find  life  different 
when  the  canal  is  opened  and  she  moves  back  to  the 
smoky  little  factory  cottage  and  learns  again  to  do 
her  own  washing. 

At  work,  "  on  the  job  "  there  is  a  genuine  Ameri- 
can freedom  of  wear-what-you-please  and  a  general 
habit  of  going  where  you  choose  in  working  clothes. 
That  is  one  of  the  incomprehensible  Zone  things  to 
the  little  veneered  Panamanian.  He  cannot  rid  him- 
self of  his  racial  conviction  that  a  man  in  an  old 
khaki  jacket  who  is  building  a  canal  must  be  of  in- 
ferior clay  to  a  hotel  loafer  in  a  frock  coat  and  a 
tall  hat.  The  real  "  Spig  "  could  never  do  any  real 
work  for  fear  of  soiling  his  clothes.  He  cannot  get 
used  to  the  plain,  brusk  American  type  without  em- 
broidery, who  just  does  things  in  his  blunt,  efficient 
way  without  wasting  time  on  little  exterior  courte- 
sies. None  of  these  childish  countries  is  man 
enough  to  see  through  the  rough  surface.  Even 
with  seven  years  of  American  example  about  him  the 
Panamanian  has  not  yet  grasped  the  divinity  of 
labor.  Perhaps  he  will  eons  hence  when  he  has 
grown  nearer  true  civilization. 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  221 

But  among  Americans  off  the  job  reminiscences 
of  East  India  flock  in  again.  D,  who  is  a 
quartermaster  at  $225,  may  be  on  "  How-are-you- 
old-man  ?  "  terms  with  G,  who  is  a  station  agent  and 
draws  $175.  But  Mrs.  D  never  thinks  of  calling  on 
Mrs.  G  socially.  H  and  J,  who  are  engineer  and 
cranemen  respectively  on  the  same  steam-shovel,  are 
probably  "  Hank  "  and  "  Jim  "  to  each  other,  but 
Mrs.  H  would  be  horrified  to  find  herself  at  the  same 
dance  with  Mrs.  J.  Mrs.  X,  whose  husband  is  a  fore- 
man at  $165,  and  whose  dining  table  is  a  full  six 
inches  longer  and  whose  ice-box  will  hold  one  more 
cold-storage  chicken,  would  not  think  of  sitting  in 
at  bridge  with  Mrs.  Y,  whose  husband  gets  $150.  As 
for  being  black,  or  any  tint  but  pure  "  white " ! 
Even  an  Englishman,  though  he  may  eat  in  the  same 
hotel  if  his  skin  is  not  too  tanned,  is  accepted  on 
staring  suffrance.  As  for  the  man  whose  skin  is  a 
bit  dull,  he  might  sit  on  the  steps  of  an  I.  C.  C.  hotel 
with  dollars  dribbling  out  of  his  pockets  until  he 
starved  to  death  —  and  he  would  be  duly  buried  in 
the  particular  grave  to  which  his  color  entitled  him. 
A  real  American  place  is  the  Zone,  with  outward 
democracy  and  inward  caste,  an  unenthusiastic  and 
afraid-to-break-the-conventions  place  in  play,  and 
the  opposite  at  work. 

Yet  with  it  all  it  is  a  good  place  in  which  to  live. 
There  you  have  always  summer,  jungled  hills  to  look 
on  by  day  and  moonlight,  and  to  roam  in  on  Sunday 


222  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

• —  unless  you  are  a  policeman  seven  days  a  week.  It 
is  possible  that  perpetual  summer  would  soon  breed 
quite  a  different  type  of  American.  The  Isthmus 
is  nearly  always  in  boyish  —  or  girlish  —  good 
temper.  Zone  women  and  girls  are  noted  for  plump 
figures  and  care-free  faces.  And  there  is  a  content- 
ment that  is  more  than  climatic.  There  are  no  hard 
times  on  the  Zone,  no  hurried,  worried  faces,  no 
famished,  wolfish  eyes.  The  "  Zoner  "  has  his  little 
troubles  of  course, —  the  servant  problem,  for  in- 
stance, for  the  Jamaican  housemaid  is  a  thorn  in  any 
side.  Now  and  then  we  hear  some  one  wailing,  "  Oh, 
it  gets  so  —  tiresome !  Everybody  's  shoveling  dirt 
or  talking  about  the  other  fellow."  But  he  knows 
it  is  n't  strictly  true  when  he  says  it  and  that  he  is 
kicking  chiefly  to  keep  in  practice.  Every  one  is 
free  from  worries  as  to  job,  pay,  house,  provisions, 
and  even  hospital  fees,  and  the  smoothness  of  it  all, 
perhaps,  gets  on  his  nerves  at  times.  I  question 
whether  "  the  Colonel "  himself  loses  much  sleep 
when  a  chunk  of  the  hill  that  bears  up  his  residence 
lets  go  and  pitches  into  the  canal.  It  sets  one  to 
musing  at  times  whether  the  rock-bound  system  of 
the  Incas  was  not  best  after  all, —  a  place  for  every 
man  and  every  man  in  his  place,  each  his  allotted 
work,  which  he  was  fully  able  to  do  and  getting  Hail 
Columbia  if  he  failed  to  do  it. 

Which  brings   up   the  question   of  results  in  la- 
bor under  the  pseudo-socialist  Zone  system.     Most 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  225 

American  employees  work  steadily  and  take  their 
work  seriously.  It  is  as  if  each  were  individually 
proud  of  being  one  of  the  chosen  people  and  build- 
ers of  the  greatest  work  of  modern  times.  Yet  the 
far-famed  "  American  rush  "  is  not  especially  preva- 
lent. The  Zone  point  of  view  seems  to  be  that  no 
shoveling  is  so  important,  even  that  of  digging  a 
ditch  half  the  ships  of  the  world  are  waiting  to 
cross,  that  a  man  should  bring  upon  himself  a  pre- 
mature funeral.  The  common  laborers,  non-Ameri- 
cans, almost  dawdle.  There  are  no  contractor's 
Irish  straw-bosses  to  keep  them  on  the  move.  The 
answer  to  the  Socialist's  scheme  of  having  the  gov- 
ernment run  all  big  building  enterprises  is  to  go 
out  and  watch  any  city  street  gang  for  an  hour. 

The  bringing  together  into  close  contact  of 
Americans  from  every  section  of  our  broad  land  is 
tending  to  make  a  new  amalgamated  type.  JSven 
New  Englandcrs  grow  almost  human  here  among 
their  broader-minded  fellow-countrymen.  Any 
northerner  can  say  "  nigger  "  as  glibly  as  a  Caro- 
linian, and  growl  if  one  of  them  steps  on  his  shadow. 
It  is  not  easy  to  say  just  how  much  effect  all  this 
will  have  when  the  canal  is  done  and  this  handful  of 
amalgamated  and  humanized  Americans  is  sprinkled 
back  over  all  the  States  as  a  leaven  to  the  whole. 
They  tell  on  the  Zone  of  a  man  from  Maine  who  sat 
four  high-school  years  on  the  same  bench  with  two 
negro  boys,  and  returning  home  after  three  years 


226  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

on  the  Isthmus  was  so  horrified  to  find  one  of  those 
boys  an  alderman  that  he  packed  his  traps  and 
moved  to  Alabama,  "  where  a  nigger  is  a  nigger  " — 
and  if  there  is  n't  the  "  makings  "  of  a  story  in 
that  I  '11  leave  it  to  the  postmaster  of  Miraflores. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

I  HERE  is  much  in  this  police  business,"  said 
*  the  Captain,"  with  his  slow,  deliberate 
enunciation,  "  that  must  lead  to  a  blank  wall.  Out 
of  ten  cases  to  investigate  -it  is  quite  possible  nine 
will  result  in  nothing.  This  percentage  could  not 
of  course  be  true  of  a  thousand  cases  and  a  man's 
services  still  be  considered  satisfactory.  But  of 
ten  it  is  quite  possible.  As  for  knowing  how  to 
do  detective  work,  all  I  bring  to  the  department  my- 
self is  some  ordinary  common  sense  and  a  little 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  with  these  I  try 
to  work  things  out  as  best  I  can.  This  peeping- 
through-the-key-hole  police  work  I  know  nothing 
whatever  about,  and  don't  want  to.  Nor  do  I  ex- 
pect a  man  to." 

I  had  been  discussing  with  "  the  Captain "  my 
dissatisfaction  at  my  failure  to  "  get  results  "  in 
an  important  case.  A  few  weeks  on  the  force  had 
changed  many  a  preconceived  notion  of  police  life. 
It  had  gradually  become  evident,  for  instance,  that 
the  profession  of  detective  is  adventurous,  absorb- 
ing, heart-stopping  chiefly  between  the  covers  of 
popular  fiction ;  that  real  detective  work,  like  al- 
most any  other  vocation,  is  made  up  largely  of  the 

227 


228  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

little  unimportant  every-day  details,  with  only  a 
rare  assignment  bulking  above  the  mass.  As  "  the 
Captain  "  said,  it  was  just  plain  every-day  work  car- 
ried on  by  the  application  of  ordinary  common 
sense.  Such  best-seller  artifices  as  disguise  were 
absurd.  Not  only  would  disguise  in  all  but  the 
rarest  cases  be  impossible,  but  useless.  The  A-B-C 
of  plain-clothes  work  is  to  learn  to  know  a  man 
by  his  face  rather  than  by  his  clothing  —  and  at  the 
outset  one  v.-ill  be  astonished  to  find  how  much  he 
has  hitherto  been  depending  on  the  latter.  It  must 
be  the  same  with  criminals,  too,  unless  your  crimi- 
nal is  an  amateur  or  a  fool,  in  which  event  you  will 
"  land  "  him  without  the  trouble  of  disguising.  A 
detective  furthermore  should  not  be  a  handsome  man 
or  a  man  of  striking  appearance  in  any  way;  the 
ideal  plain-clothes  man  is  the  little  insignificant 
snipe  whom  even  the  ladies  will  not  notice. 

Since  April  tenth  I  had  been  settled  in  notorious 
House  111,  Ancon,  a  sort  of  frontiersman  resort  or 
smugglers'  retreat  —  had  there  been  anything  to 
smuggle  —  where  to  have  fallen  through  the  veranda 
screening  would  have  been  to  fall  into  a  foreign  land. 
As  pay-day  approached  there  came  the  duty  of  stand- 
ing a  half-hour  at  the  station  gate  before  the  de- 
parture of  each  train  to  watch  and  discuss  with  the 
ponderous,  smiling,  dark-skinned  chief  of  Panama's 
plain-clothes  squad,  or  with  a  vigilante  the  suspi- 
cious characters  and  known  crooks  of  all  colors 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  229 

going  out  along  the  line.  On  the  twelfth,  thir- 
teenth and  fourteenth  the  I.  C.  C.  pay-car,  that  bank 
on  wheels  guarded  by  a  squad  of  Z.  P.,  sprinkled  its 
half-million  a  day  along  the  Zone.  Then  plain- 
clothes  duty  was  not  merely  to  scan  the  embarking 
passengers  but  to  ride  out  with  each  train  to  one 
of  the  busy  towns.  There  scores  upon  scores  of 
soil-smeared  workmen  swarmed  over  all  the  land- 
scape with  long  paper-wrapped  rolls  of  Panamanian 
silver  in  their  hands,  while  flashily  dressed  touts  and 
crooks  of  both  sexes  drifted  out  from  Panama  with 
every  train  to  worm  their  insidious  way  into  wher- 
ever the  scent  of  coin  promised  another  month  free 
from  labor.  To  add  to  those  crowded  times  the 
chief  dissipation  of  the  West  Indian  during  the  few 
days  following  pay-day  that  his  earnings  last  is  to 
ride  aimlessly  and  joyously  back  and  forth  on  the 
trains. 

There  is  one  advantage,  though  some  policemen 
call  it  by  quite  the  opposite  name,  in  being  stationed 
at  Ancon.  When  crime  takes  a  holiday  and  do- 
nothing  threatens  tropical  dementia,  or  a  man  tires 
of  his  native  land  and  people  a  short  stroll  down 
the  asphalt  takes  him  into  the  city  of  Panama. 
Barely  across  the  street  where  his  badge  becomes 
mere  metal,  and  he  must  take  care  not  to  arrest 
absent-mindedly  the  first  violator  of  Zone  laws  — 
whom  he  is  sure  to  come  upon  within  the  first  block 
— he  notes  that  the  English  tongue  has  suddenly 


230  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

almost  disappeared.  On  every  hand,  lightly 
sprinkled  with  many  other  dialects,  sounds  Spanish, 
the  slovenly  Spanish  of  Panama  in  which  bueno  is 
"  hiieno  "  and  calle  is  "  caye."  As  he  swings  lan- 
guidly to  the  right  into  Avenida  Central  he  grows 
gradually  aware  that  there  has  settled  down  about 
him  a  cold  indifference,  an  atmosphere  quite  differ- 
ent from  that  on  his  own  side  of  the  line.  Those 
he  addresses  in  the  tongue  of  the  land  reply  to  his 
questions  with  their  customary  gestures  and  fixed 
phrases  of  courtesy.  But  no  more;  and  a  cold 
dead  silence  falls  sharply  upon  the  last  word,  and  at 
times,  if  the  experience  be  comparatively  new,  there 
seems  to  hover  in  the  air  something  that  reminds  him 
that  way  back  fifty-six  years  ago  there  was  a 

massacre "   of  Americans   in   Panama   city.     For 
Panamanian  has  little  love  for  the  United  States 
or  its  people;  which  is  the  customary  thanks  any 

an  or  nation  gets  for  lifting  a  dirty  half-breed 

in  from  the  gutter. 
Off  in  the  vortex  of  the  city  lolls  Panama's 
public  market,  where  Chinamen  are  the  chief 
sellers  and  flies  the  chief  consumers.  Myriads 
of  fruits  in  every  stage  of  development  and  disinte- 
gration, haggled  bits  of  meat,  the  hundred  sights 
and  sounds  and  smells  one  hurries  past  suggest 
that  Panama  may  even  have  outdone  Central 
America  before  Uncle  Sam  came  with  his  garbage- 
cans  and  his  switch.  Further  on,  down  at  the  old 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  231 

harbor,  lingers  a  hint  of  the  pictwesqueness  of 
Panama  in  pre-canal  days.  Clumsy  boats,  empty, 
or  deep-laden  with  fruit  from,  or  freight  to,  the  sev- 
eral islands  that  sprinkle  the  bay,  splash  and  bump 
against  the  little  cement  wharf.  Aged  wooden 
"  windjammers  "  doze  at  their  moorings,  everywhere 
are  jabbering  natives  with  that  shifty  half-cast  eye 
and  frequent  evidence  of  deep-rooted  disease.  Al- 
most every  known  race  mingles  in  Panama  city,  even 
to  Chinese  coolies  in  their  umbrella  hats  and  rolled 
up  cotton  trousers,  delving  in  rich  market  gardens 
on  the  edges  of  the  town  or  dog-trotting  through 
the  streets  under  two  baskets  dancing  on  the  ends 
of  a  bamboo  pole,  till  one  fancies  oneself  at  times 
in  Singapore  or  Shanghai.  The  black  Zone 
laborer,  too,  often  prefers  to  live  in  Panama  for  the 
greater  freedom  it  affords  —  there  he  does  n't  have 
to  clean  his  sink  so  often,  marry  his  "  wife,"  or  ban- 
ish his  chickens  from  the  bedroom.  Policemen  with 
their  clubs  swarm  everywhere,  for  no  particular  rea- 
son than  that  the  little  republic  is  forbidden  to  play 
at  army,  and  with  the  presidential  election  ap- 
proaching political  henchmen  must  be  kept  good- 
humored.  Not  a  few  of  these  officers  are  West 
Indians  who  speak  not  a  word  of  Spanish  —  nor 
any  other  tongue,  strictly  speaking. 

Rubber-tired  carriages  roll  constantly  by  along 
Uncle  Sam's  macadam,  amid  the  jingling  of  their 
musical  bells.  Every  one  takes  a  carriage  in  Pan- 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

ama.  Any  man  can  afford  ten  cents  even  if  he  has 
no  expense  account ;  besides  he  runs  no  risk  of  be- 
ing overcharged,  which  is  a  greater  advantage  than 
the  cost.  All  this  may  be  different  when  Panama's 
electric  line,  all  the  way  from  Balboa  docks  to  Las 
Sabanas,  is  opened  —  but  that 's  another  year. 
Meanwhile  the  lolling  in  carriages  comes  to  be  quite 
second  nature. 

But  like  any  tropical  Spanish  town  Panama  seethes 
only  by  night,  especially  Saturday  and  Sunday 
nights  when  the  paternal  Zone  government  allows 
its  children  to  spend  the  evening  in  town.  Then 
frequent  trains,  unknown  during  the  week,  begin  with 
the  setting  of  the  sun  to  disgorge  Americans  of  all 
grades  and  sizes  through  the  clicking  turnstiles  into 
the  arms  of  gesticulating  hackmen,  some  to  squirm 
away  afoot  between  the  carriages,  all  to  be  swal- 
lowed up  within  ten  minutes  in  the  great  sea  of 
"  colored  "  people.  So  that,  large  as  may  be  each 
train-load,  white  American  faces  are  so  rare  on 
Panama  streets  that  one  involuntarily  glances  at 
each  that  passes  in  the  throng. 

It  is  the  "  gum-shoe's  "  duty  to  know  and  be  un- 
known in  as  many  places  as  possible.  Wherefore  on 
such  nights,  whatever  his  choice,  he  drifts  early 
down  by  the  "  Normandie  "  and  on  into  the  "  Pana- 
zone  "  to  see  who  is  out,  and  why.  In  the  latter 
emporium  he  adds  a  bottle  of  beer  to  his  expense  ac- 
count, endures  for  a  few  moments  the  bawling  above 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  235 

the  scream  of  the  piano  of  two  Americans  of  Pales- 
tinian antecedents,  admires  some  local  hero,  like 
"  Baldy  "  for  instance,  who  is  credited  with  doing 
what  Napoleon  could  not  do,  and  floats  on,  perhaps 
to  screw  up  his  courage  and  venture  into  the  thinly- 
clad  Teatro  Apolo.  He  who  knows  where  to  look, 
or  was  born  under  a  lucky  star,  may  even  see  on 
these  merry  evenings  a  big  Marine  from  Bas  Obispo 
or  a  burly  soldier  of  the  Tenth  howling  some  joyful 
song  with  six  or  seven  little  "  Spig "  policemen 
climbing  about  on  his  frame.  At  such  times  every- 
thing but  real  blood,  flows  in  Panama.  Her  history 
runs  that  way.  On  the  day  she  won  her  independ- 
ence from  Spain  it  is  said  the  General  in  Chief  cut 
his  finger  on  a  wine  glass.  The  day  she  won  it 
from  Colombia  there  was  a  Chinaman  killed  —  but 
every  one  agrees  that  was  due  to  the  celestial's  crim- 
inal carelessness. 

Down  at  the  quieter  end  of  the  city  are  "  Las 
Bovedas,"  that  curving  sea-wall  Phillip  of  Spain 
tried  to  make  out  from  his  palace  walls,  as  many  an- 
other, regal  and  otherwise,  has  strained  his  eyes  in 
vain  to  see  where  his  good  coin  has  gone.  But  the 
walls  are  there  all  right,  though  Phillip  never  saw 
them;  crumbling  a  bit,  yet  still  a  sturdy  barrier  to 
the  sea.  A  broad  cement  and  grass  promenade  runs 
atop,  wide  as  an  American  street.  Thirty  or  forty 
feet  below  the  low  parapet  sounds  the  deep,  time- 
mellowed  voice  of  the  Pacific,  as  there  rolls  higher 


236  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

and  higher  up  the  rock  ledges  that  great  tide  so 
different  from  the  scarcely  noticeable  one  at  Colon. 
The  summer  breeze  never  dies  down,  never  grows 
boisterous.  On  the  landward  side  Panama  lies 
mumbling  to  itself,  down  in  the  hollow  between 
squats  Chiriqui  prison  with  its  American  warden, 
once  a  Zone  policeman ;  while  in  the  round  stone 
watch-towers  on  the  curving  parapets  lean  prison 
guards  with  fixed  bayonets  and  incessantly  blow  the 
shrill  tin  whistles  that  is  the  universal  Latin-Ameri- 
can artifice  for  keeping  policemen  awake.  On  the 
way  back  to  the  city  the  elite  —  or  befriended  — 
may  drop  in  at  the  University  Club  at  the  end  of 
the  wall  for  a  cooling  libation. 

On  Sunday  night  comes  the  band  concert  in  the 
palm-ringed  Cathedral  Plaza.  There  is  one  on 
Thursday,  too,  in  Plaza  Santa  Ana,  but  that  is 
packed  with  all  colors  and  considered  "  rather 
vulgah."  In  the  square  by  the  cathedral  the  ag- 
gregate color  is  far  lighter.  Pure  African  blood 
hangs  chiefly  in  the  outskirts.  Then  the  haughty 
aristocrats  of  Panama,  proud  of  their  own  individ- 
ual shade  of  color,  may  be  seen  in  the  same  prome- 
nade with  American  ladies  —  even  a  garrison  widow 
or  two  —  from  out  along  the  line.  Panamanian 
girls  gaudily  dressed  and  suggesting  to  the  nostrils 
perambulating  drug-stores  shuttle  back  and  forth 
with  their  perfumed  dandies.  Above  the  throng  pass 
the  heads  and  shoulders  of  unemotional,  self-pos- 


"Zoners"  forced  to  live  in  box-cars  are  furnished  all  the  comforts  of  home 


"The  Chief"  addresses  the  "crack  shots"  at  the  target  range 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  239 

sessed  Americans,  erect  and  soldierly.  Sergeant 
Jack  of  Ancon  station  was  sure  to  be  there 
in  his  faultless  civilian  garb,  a  figure  neat  but  not 
gaudy;  and  even  busy  Lieutenant  Long  was  known 
to  break  away  from  his  stacked-up  duties  and  his 
black  stenographer  and  come  to  overtop  all  else 
in  the  square  save  the  palm-trees  whispering  to- 
gether in  the  evening  breeze  between  the  num- 
bers. 

There  is  no  favoritism  in  Zone  police  work.  Every 
crime  reported  receives  full  investigation,  be  it  only 
a  Greek  laborer  losing  a  pair  of  trousers  or  — 

There  was  the  case  that  fell  to  me  early  in  May, 
for  instance.  A  box  billed  from  New  York  to  Peru 
had  been  broken  open  on  Balboa  dock  and  —  one 
bottle  of  cognac  stolen.  Unfortunately  the  matter 
was  turned  over  to  me  so  long  after  the  perpetration 
of  the  dastardly  crime  that  the  possible  culprits 
among  the  dock  hands  had  wholly  recovered  from 
the  probable  consumption  of  the  evidence.  But  I 
succeeded  in  gathering  material  for  a  splendid  type- 
written report  of  all  I  had  not  been  able  to  un- 
earth, to  file  away  among  other  priceless  head- 
quarters' archives. 

Not  that  the  Z.  P.  has  not  its  big  jobs.  The 
force  to  a  man  distinctly  remembers  that  absorbing 
two  months  between  the  escape  of  wild  black  Felix 
Paul  and  the  day  they  dragged  him  back  into  the 
penitentiary.  No  less  fresh  in  memory  are  the  expe- 


240  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

ditions  against  Maurice  Pelote,  or  Fran£ois  Barduc, 
the  murderer  of  Miraflores.  All  Martinique  negroes, 
be  it  noted;  and  of  all  things  on  this  earth,  in- 
cluding greased  pigs,  the  hardest  to  catch  is  a 
Martinique  criminal.  After  all,  four  or  five  murders 
on  the  Zone  in  three  years  is  no  startling  record  in 
such  a  swarm  of  nationalities. 

Cases  large  and  small  which  it  would  be  neither 
of  interest,  nor  politic  to  detail  poured  in  during 
the  following  weeks.  Among  them  was  the  counter- 
feit case  unearthed  by  some  Shylock  Holmes  on  the 
Panamanian  force,  that  called  for  a  long  perspiring 
hunt  for  the  "  plant  "  in  odd  corners  of  the  Zone. 

Then  there  was ,  an  ex-Z.  P.  who  lost  his  three 

years'  savings  on  the  train,  for  which  reason  I 
shadowed  a  well-known  American  —  for  it  is  a  Z.  P. 
rule  that  no  one  is  above  suspicion  —  about  Panama 
afoot  and  in  carriages  nearly  all  night,  in  true 
dime-novel  fashion.  There  was  the  day  that  I  was 
given  a  dangerous  convict  to  deliver  at  Culebra  Peni- 
tentiary. The  criminal  was  about  three  feet  long, 
jet  black,  his  worldly  possessions  comprising  two 
more  or  less  garments,  one  reaching  as  far  down  as 
his  knees  and  the  other  as  far  up  as  the  base  of  his 
neck.  He  had  long  been  a  familiar  sight  to  "  Zon- 
ers  "  among  the  swarm  of  bootblacks  that  infest  the 
corner  near  the  P.  R.  R.  station.  He  claimed  to  be 
eleven,  and  looked  it.  But  having  already  served 
time  for  burglary  and  horse-stealing,  his  conviction 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

for  stealing  a  gold  necklace  from  a  negro  washer- 
woman of  San  Miguel  left  the  Chief  Justice  no  choice 
but  to  send  him  to  meditate  a  half-year  at  Culebra. 
There  is  no  reform  school  on  the  Zone.  The  few 
American  minors  who  have  been  found  guilty  of  mis- 
doing have  been  banished  to  their  native  land. 
When  the  deputy  warden  had  sufficiently  recovered 
from  the  shock  brought  upon  him  by  the  sight  of  his 
new  charge  to  give  me  a  receipt  for  him,  I  raced  for 
the  noon  train  back  to  the  city. 

Thereon  I  sat  down  beside  Pol  —  First-Class  Po- 
liceman X ,  surprised  to  find  him  off  duty  and  in 

civilian  clothes.  There  was  a  dreamy,  far-away  look 
in  his  eyes,  and  not  until  the  train  was  racing  past 
Rio  Grande  reservoir  did  he  turn  to  confide  to  me 
the  following  extraordinary  occurrence: 

"  Last  night  I  dreamed  old  Judge  had  my 

father  and  my  mother  up  before  him.  On  the  stand 
he  asked  my  mother  her  age  —  and  the  funny  part 
of  it  is  my  mother  has  been  dead  over  ten  years. 
She  turned  around  and  wrote  on  the  wall  with  a 
piece  of  chalk  *  1859,'  the  year  she  was  born.  Then 
my  father  was  called  and  he  wrote  '  1853.'  That 's 
all  there  was  to  the  dream.  But  take  it  from  me 
I  know  what  it  means.  Now  just  add  'em  together, 
and  multiply  by  five  —  because  I  could  see  five 
people  in  the  court-room  —  divide  by  two  —  father 
and  mother — and  I  get — ,"  he  drew  out  a 
crumpled  "  arrest  "  form  covered  with  penciled  fig- 


242  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

ures,  " —  9280.  And  there  — "  his  voice  dropped 
low,  " —  is  your  winning  number  for  next  Sunday." 

So  certain  was  this,  that  First-Class  X had 

bribed  another  policeman  to  take  his  eight-hour 
shift,  dressed  in  his  vacation  best,  bought  a  ticket 
to  Panama  and  return,  with  real  money  at  tourist 
prices,  and  would  spend  the  blazing  afternoon  seek- 
ing among  the  scores  of  vendors  in  the  city  for  lot- 
tery ticket  9280.  And  if  he  did  not  find  it  there 
he  certainly  paid  his  fare  all  the  way  to  Colon  and 
back  to  continue  his  search.  I  believe  he  at  length 
found  and  acquired  the  whole  ticket,  for  the  custom- 
ary sum  of  $2.50.  But  there  must  have  been  a  slip 
in  the  arithmetic,  or  mother's  chalk ;  for  the  winning 
number  that  Sunday  was  8895. 

Frequent  as  are  these  melancholy  errors,  scores 
of  "  Zoners  "  cling  faithfully  to  their  arithmetical 
superstitions.  Many  a  man  spends  his  recreation 
hours  working  out  the  winning  numbers  by  some 
secret  recipe  of  his  own.  There  are  men  on  the 
Z.  P.  who,  if  you  can  get  them  started  on  the  sub- 
ject of  lottery  tickets,  will  keep  it  up  until  you  run 
away,  showing  you  the  infallibility  of  their  various 
systems,  believing  the  drawing  to  be  honest,  yet  ob- 
livious to  the  fact  that  both  the  one  and  the  other 
cannot  be  true.  Dreams  are  held  in  special  favor.  It 
is  probably  safe  to  assert  that  one-half  the  num- 
bers over  1,000  and  under  10,000  that  appear  in 
Zone  dreams  are  snapped  up  next  day  in  lottery 


tickets.  Many  have  systems  of  figuring  out  the  all- 
important  number  from  the  figures  on  engines  and 
cars.  More  than  one  Zone  housewife  has  slipped 
into  the  kitchen  to  find  the  roast  burning  and  her 
West  Indian  cook  hiding  hastily  behind  her  ample 
skirt  a  long  list  of  the  figures  on  every  freight-car 
that  has  passed  that  morning,  from  which  by  some 
Antillian  miscalculation  and  the  murmuring  of  cer- 
tain invocations  she  was  to  find  the  magic  number 
that  would  bring  her  cooking  days  to  an  end. 

Yet  there  is  sometimes  method  in  their  madness. 
Did  not  "  Joe  "  who  slept  in  the  next  room  to  me 
at  Gatun  "  hit  Duque  for  two  pieces  " —  which  is 
to  say  he  had  $3,000  to  sprinkle  along  with  his 
police  salary?  Yet  personally  the  only  really  ap- 
pealing "  system "  was  that  of  Cristobal.  Upon 
his  arrival  on  the  Isthmus  four  years  ago  he 
picked  out  a  number  at  random,  took  out  a  yearly 
subscription  to  it,  and  thought  no  more  about  it 
than  one  does  of  a  newspaper  delivered  at  the  door 
each  morning  —  until  one  Monday  during  this  month 
of  May,  after  he  had  squandered  something  over 
$500,  on  worthless  bits  of  paper,  he  strolled  into  the 
lottery  office  and  was  handed  an  inconspicuous  lit- 
tle bag  containing  $7,500  in  yellow  gold. 

Like  all  Z.  P.  "rookies"  (recruits)  I  had  been 
warned  early  to  beware  the  "  sympathy  dodge." 
But  experience  is  the  only  real  teacher.  One  after- 
noon I  bestraddled  a  crazy,  stilt-legged  Jamaican 


244  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

horse  to  go  out  into  the  bush  beyond  the  Panama 
line  to  fetch  and  deliver  a  citizen  of  that  sovereign 
republic  who  was  wanted  on  the  Zone  for  horse- 
stealing.  At  the  town  of  Sabanas,  where  those 
Panamanians  who  have  bagged  the  most  loot  since 
American  occupation  have  their  "  summer "  homes, 
—  giddy,  brick-painted  monstrosities  among  the 
great  trees,  deep  green  foliage  and  brilliant  flower- 
beds (pause  a  moment  and  think  of  brilliant  red 
houses  in  the  tropics ;  it  will  make  you  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  "  Spig  ")  I  dropped  in  at  the  po- 
lice station  for  ice-water  and  information.  I  found 
it  in  charge  of  a  negro  policeman  who  knew  noth- 
ing, and  had  forgotten  that.  When,  therefore,  it 
also  chanced  that  an  officer  of  the  Society  for  the 
Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals  stopped  before 
the  gate  with  a  coachman  of  Panama,  it  fell  upon 
me  to  assume  command.  The  horse  was  the  usual 
emaciated  rat  of  an  animal  indigenous  to  Panama 
City.  When  overhauled,  the  driver  was  beating  the 
animal  uphill  on  his  way  to  Old  Panama  to  bring 
back  a  party  of  tourists  visiting  the  ruins.  How  he 
expected  the  decrepit  beast  to  carry  four  more  per- 
sons was  a  mystery.  When  the  harness  was  lifted 
there  was  disclosed  the  expected  half-dozen  large 
raw  sores.  We  tied  the  animal  in  the  shade  near 
hay  and  water  and  adjourned  to  the  station. 

The  coachman,  a  weary,  unshaven  Spaniard  whose 
red  eyelids  showed  lack  of  sleep,  was  weeping  co- 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  245 

piously.  He  claimed  to  be  a  madrileno  —  which  was 
evident ;  that  he  had  been  a  coachman  in  Spain  and 
Panama  all  his  life  without  ever  before  having  been 
arrested  —  which  was  possible.  He  was  merely  one 
of  many  drivers  for  a  livery-stable  owner  in  Panama. 
Ordered  to  go  for  the  tourists,  he  had  called  his  em- 
ployer's attention  to  the  danger  of  crossing  Zone 
territory  with  a  horse  in  that  condition;  but  the 
owner  had  ordered  him  to  cover  up  the  sores  with 
pads  and  harness  and  drive  along. 

It  was  a  very  sad  case.  Here  was  a  poor,  honest 
coachman  struggling  to  support  a  wife  and  I  don't 
recall  how  many  children,  but  any  number  sounds 
quite  reasonable  in  Panama,  who  was  about  to  be 
punished  for  the  fault  of  another.  The  paradox  of 
honest  and  coachman  did  not  strike  me  until  later. 
He  was  certainly  telling  the  truth  —  you  come  to 
recognize  it  readily  in  all  ordinary  cases  after  a 
few  weeks  in  plain  clothes.  The  real  culprit  was, 
of  course,  the  employer.  My  righteous  wrath  de- 
manded that  he  and  not  his  poor  serf  be  punished. 
I  could  not  release  the  driver.  But  I  would  see  that 
the  truth  was  brought  out  in  court  next  morning 
and  a  warrant  sworn  out  against  the  owner.  With 
showering  tears  and  rib-shaking  sobs  the  coachman 
promised  to  tell  the  judge  the  whole  story.  I  went 
through  him,  and  locking  him  up  with  assurances  of 
my  deepest  sympathy  and  full  assistance,  stilted  on 
toward  the  little  village  of  shacks  scattered  out  of 


246  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

sight  among  the  hills,  and  valleys  across  the  bor- 
der. 

Coachman,  witnesses,  and  arresting  officer,  to  say 
nothing  of  horse,  carriage,  and  sores  were  on  hand 
when  court  opened  next  morning.  As  I  expected, 
the  judge  failed  to  ask  the  poor  fellow  a  single  ques- 
tion that  would  bring  out  the  complicity  of  his  em- 
ployer; did  not  in  fact  discover  there  was  an  em- 
ployer. I  asked  to  be  sworn,  and  gave  the  true 
version  of  the  case.  The  judge  listened  earnestly. 
When  I  had  ended,  he  recalled  the  coachman.  The 
latter  expressed  his  astonishment  that  I  should  have 
made  any  such  statements.  He  denied  them  in  toto. 
His  employer  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the 
case.  The  fault  was  entirely  his,  and  no  one  else 
was  in  the  remotest  degree  connected  with  the  mat- 
ter. 

"Five  dollars!"  snapped  the  judge. 

The  coachman  paid,  hitched  up  the  rat  of  a  horse, 
and  wabbled  away  into  Panama. 

Police  business,  taking  me  down  into  "  the  Grove  " 
that  night,  I  found  the  driver,  clean-shaven  and 
better  dressed,  waiting  for  fares  before  the  princi- 
pal house  of  that  section. 

"  What  kind  of  a  game  — ,"  I  began. 

"  Senor,"  he  cried,  and  tears  again  seemed  on  the 
point  of  falling,  "  every  word  I  told  you  was  true. 
But  of  course  I  could  n't  testify  against  the  patron. 
He  'd  discharge  me  and  blackmail  me,  and  you  know 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  24,7 

I  have  a  wife  and  innumerable  children  to  support. 
Come  on  over  and  have  a  drink." 

This  justice  business,  one  soon  learns,  is  of  the 
same  infallible  stuff  as  the  rest  of  life.  After  all 
it  is  only  the  personal  opinion  of  the  judge  between 
two  persons  swearing  on  oath  to  diametrically  op- 
posed statements ;  and  for  all  the  impressiveness  of 
deep  furrowed  brows  I  did  not  find  that  the  average 
judge  had  any  more  power  of  reading  human  nature 
than  the  average  of  the  rest  of  us.  I  well  remem- 
ber the  morning  when  a  meek  little  Panamanian  was 
testifying  in  his  own  behalf,  in  Spanish  of  course, 
when  the  judge  broke  in  without  even  asking  for  a 
translation  of  the  testimony: 

"  That  '11  do !  Because  of  your  gestures  I  be- 
lieve you  are  trying  to  bunco  this  court.  You  are 
lying  —  tell  him  that,"  this  to  the  negro  interpreter ; 
and  he  therewith  sentenced  the  witness  to  jail. 

As  if  any  Panamanian  could  talk  earnestly  of 
anything  without  waving  his  arms  about  him. 

The  telephone-bell  rang  one  afternoon.  It  was 
always  doing  that,  twenty-four  hours  a  day;  but 
this  time  it  sounded  especially  sharp  and  insistent. 
In  the  adjoining  room,  over  the  "blotter,"  snapped 
the  brusk  stereotyped  nasal  reply : 

"  Ancon !     Bingham  talking !  " 

The  instrument  buzzed  a  moment  and  the  deskman 
looked  up  to  say: 

"  '  Andy '  and  a  nigger  just  fell  over  into  Pedro 


248  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

Miguel  locks.     They  're  sending  in  his  body.     The 
nigger  lit  on  his  head  and  hurt  his  leg." 

His  body !  How  uncanny  it  sounded !  "  Andy," 
that  bunch  of  muscles  who  had  made  such  short 
work  of  the  circus  wrestler  in  Gatun  and  whom  I 
had  seen  not  twenty-four  hours  before  bubbling  with 
life  was  now  a  "  body."  Things  happen  quickly  on 
the  Zone,  and  he  whom  the  fates  have  picked  to  go 
generally  shows  no  hesitation  in  his  exit.  But  at 
least  a  man  who  dies  for  the  I.  C.  C.  has  the  affairs  he 
left  behind  him  attended  to  in  a  thorough  manner. 
In  ten  minutes  to  a  half-hour  one  of  the  Z.  P.  is 
on  the  ground  taking  note  of  every  detail  of  the  ac- 
cident. A  special  train  or  engine  rushes  the  body 
to  the  morgue  in  Ancon  hospital  grounds.  A  cor- 
oner's jury  is  soon  meeting  under  the  chairmanship 
of  a  policeman,  long  reports  of  everything  concern- 
ing the  victim  or  the  accident  are  soon  flowing  Ad- 
ministration-ward. The  police  accident  report  is  de- 
tailed and  in  triplicate.  There  is  sure  to  be  in  the 
"  personal  files "  at  Culebra  a  history  of  the  de- 
ceased and  the  names  of  his  nearest  relative  or  friend 
both  on  the  Isthmus  and  in  the  States;  for  every 
employee  must  make  out  his  biography  at  the  time 
of  his  engagement.  There  are  men  whose  regular 
duty  it  is  to  list  and  take  care  of  his  possessions 
down  to  the  last  lead  pencil,  and  to  forward  them 
to  the  legal  heirs.  A  year's  pay  goes  to  his  family 
—  were  as  much  required  of  every  employer  and  his 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  249 

the  burden  of  proving  the  accident  the  fault  of  the 
employee,  how  the  safety  appliances  in  factories 
would  multiply.  There  is  a  man  attached  to  Ancon 
hospital  whose  unenviable  duty  it  is  to  write  a  let- 
ter of  condolence  to  the  relatives  in  the  States. 

And  so  the  "  Kangaroos  "  or  the  "  Red  Men  "  or 
whatever  his  lodge  was  filed  behind  the  I.  C.  C. 
casket  to  the  church  in  Ancon,  and  "  Andy  "  was 
laid  away  under  another  of  the  simple  white  iron 
crosses  that  thickly  populate  many  a  Zone  hillside, 
and  he  was  charged  up  to  the  big  debit  column  of 
the  costs  of  the  canal.  On  the  cross  is  his  new 
number ;  for  officially  a  "  Zoner  "  is  always  a  num- 
ber ;  that  of  the  brass-check  he  wears  as  a  watch- 
charm  alive,  that  at  the  head  of  his  grave  when  his 
canal-digging  is  over. 

Late  one  unoccupied  afternoon  I  picked  up  the 
path  behind  the  Administration  Building  and,  skirt- 
ing a  Zone  residence,  began  to  climb  that  famous 
oblong  mound  that  dominates  the  Pacific  end  of  the 
landscape  from  every  direction, —  Ancon  Hill.  For 
a  way  a  fairly  steep  and  stony  path  lead  through 
thick  undergrowth.  Then  this  ceased,  and  a  far 
steeper  trail  zigzagged  up  the  face  of  the  bare  moun- 
tain?  covered  only  with  thin  dead  grass.  The  set- 
ting sun  cast  its  shadow  obliquely  across  the  summit 
when  I  reached  it, —  a  long  ridge,  with  groves  of 
trees,  running  off  abruptly  toward  the  sea.  On  the 
opposite  side  Uncle  Sam  was  cutting  away  a  whole 


250  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

side  of  the  hill.  But  the  five  o'clock  whistle  had 
blown,  and  whole  armies  of  little  workmen  swarmed 
across  all  the  landscape  far  below,  and  silence  soon 
settled  down  save  for  the  dredges  at  Balboa  that 
chug  on  through  the  night.  But  for  myself  the  hill 
was  wholly  unpeopled.  A  sturdy  ocean  breeze 
swept  steadily  across  it.  The  sinking  sun  set  the 
jungle  afire  in  a  spot  that  would  have  startled  those 
who  do  not  know  that  it  rises  in  the  Pacific  at  Pan- 
ama, crude,  glaring  colors  glowed,  fading  to  gentler 
and  more  delicate  tints,  then  the  evening  shadow 
that  had  climbed  the  hill  with  me  spread  like  a  great 
black  veil  over  all  the  world. 

But  the  moon  nearing  its  full  followed  almost  on 
the  heels  of  the  setting  sun  and,  casting  its  half- 
day  over  a  scene  rich  in  nature  and  history,  invited 
the  eye  to  swing  clear  round  the  hazy  circle.  Be- 
low lay  Panama  dully  rumbling  with  night  traffic. 
Silent  Ancon,  still  better  lighted,  cuddled  upon  the 
lower  skirts  of  the  hill  itself.  Then  beyond,  the 
curving  bay,  half  seen,  half  guessed,  with  its  long 
promontory  dying  away  into  the  hazy  moonlit  dis- 
tance, lighted  up  here  and  there  by  bush  fires  in 
the  jungled  hills.  Some  way  out  winked  the  cluster 
of  lights  that  marked  Las  Sabanas.  In  front,  the 
placid  Pacific,  the  "  South  Sea  "  of  the  Spaniards, 
spread  dimly  away  into  the  void  of  night,  its  several 
islands  seen  only  by  the  darker  darkness  that  marked 
where  they  lay. 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  253 

On  the  other  side  of  the  hill  the  rumble  of  cranes 
and  night  labor  came  up  from  Balboa  dock.  There, 
began  the  canal,  which  the  eye  could  follow  away 
into  the  dim  hilly  inland  distance  —  and  come  upon 
a  great  cluster  of  lights  that  was  Corozal,  then 
another  group  that  was  Miraflores,  close  followed 
by  those  of  Pedro  Miguel;  and  yet  further,  rising 
to  such  height  as  to  be  almost  indistinguishable 
from  the  lower  stars  the  lights  of  the  negro  cabins 
of  upper  Paraiso  twinkled  dimly  above  a  broad  glow 
that  was  Paraiso  itself.  There  the  vista  ended. 
For  at  Paraiso  the  canal  turns  to  the  left  for  its 
plunge  through  Culebra  hill,  and  all  that  follows, — 
Empire,  Cascadas,  and  far  Gatun,  was  visible  only 
in  the  imagination. 

If  only  the  film  of  time  might  roll  back  and  there 
pass  again  before  our  eyes  all  that  has  come  to  pass 
within  sight  of  Ancon  hilltop.  Across  the  bay  there, 
where  now  are  only  jungle-tangled  ruins,  Pizarro 
set  out  with  his  handful  of  vagabonds  to  conquer 
South  America ;  there  old  Buccaneer  Morgan  laid  his 
bloody  hand.  Back  in  the  hills  there  men  died  by 
scores  trying  to  carry  a  ship  across  the  Isthmus, 
the  Spanish  viceroys  passed  with  their  rich  trains, 
there  on  some  unknown  knoll  Balboa  reached  four 
hundred  years  ago  the  climax  of  a  career  that  began 
with  stowing  away  in  a  cask  and  ended  under  the 
headsman's  ax  —  no  end  of  it,  down  to  the  "  Forty- 
niners  "  going  hopefully  out  and  returning  filled 


254  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

with  gold  or  disease,  or  leaving  their  bones  here  in 
the  jungle  before  they  really  were  "  Forty-niners  "; 
on  down  to  the  railroad  days  with  men  wading  in 
swamps  with  survey  kits,  and  frequently  lying  down 
to  die.  Then  if  a  bit  of  the  future,  too,  could  for 
a  moment  be  unveiled,  and  one  might  watch  the  first 
ship  glide  majestically  and  silently  into  the  canal 
and  away  into  the  jungle  like  some  amphibious  mon- 
ster. 

It  was  along  in  those  days  that  we  were  looking 
for  a  "  murderous  assaulter."  At  a  Saturday  night 
dance  in  a  native  shack  back  in  Miraflores  bush  the 
usual  riot  had  broken  out  about  midnight  and  a 
revolver  had  come  into  play.  As  a  result  there  was  a 
Peruvian  mulatto  up  in  Ancon  hospital  who  had  been 
shot  through  the  mouth,  the  bullet  being  somewhere 
in  his  neck.  It  became  my  frequent  duty,  among 
other  Z.  P.'s,  to  take  suspects  up  the  hill  for  possible 
identification. 

One  morning  I  strolled  into  the  station  and  fell  to 
laughing.  The  early  train  had  brought  in  on  sus- 
picion a  Spanish  laborer  of  twenty  or  twenty-two ;  a 
pretty,  girlish  chap  with  huge  blue  eyes  over  which 
hung  long  black  lashes  like  those  painted  on  Niirn- 
berg  dolls.  No  one  with  a  shadow  of  faith  in  human 
nature  left  would  have  believed  him  capable  of  any 
crime ;  any  one  at  all  acquainted  with  Spaniards  must 
have  known  he  could  not  shoot  a  hare,  would  in  fact 
be  afraid  to  fire  off  a  gun. 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  255 

The  fear  in  his  big  blue  eyes  struggled  with  his 
ingenuous,  girlish  smile  as  I  marched  him  through 
the  long  hall  full  of  white  beds  and  darker  inmates. 
The  Peruvian  sat  bolstered  up  in  his  cot,  a  stoical, 
revengeful  glare  on  his  reddish-brown  swollen  face. 
He  gazed  a  long  minute  at  the  boy's  face,  across 
which  flitted  the  flush  of  fear  and  embarrassment,  at 
the  big  doll's  eyes,  then  shook  a  raised  forefinger 
slowly  back  and  forth  before  his  nose  —  the  nega- 
tive of  Spanish-speaking  peoples.  Then  he  groaned, 
spat  in  a  tin-can  beside  him,  and  called  for  paper 
and  pencil.  In  the  note-book  I  handed  him  he  wrote 
in  atrociously  spelled  Spanish: 

"  The  man  that  came  to  the  dance  with  this  man 
is  the  man  that  shot  me  with  a  bullet." 

The  blue-eyed  boy  promised  to  point  out  his  com- 
panion of  that  night.  We  took  the  10:55  and 
reached  Pedro  Miguel  during  the  noon  hour.  Down 
in  a  box-car  camp  between  the  railroad  and  the  canal 
the  boy  called  for  "  Jose  "  and  there  presented  him- 
self immediately  a  tall,  studious,  solemn-faced 
Spaniard  of  spare  frame,  about  forty,  dressed 
in  overalls  and  working  shirt.  Here  was  even  less 
a  criminal  type  than  the  boy. 

"  Senor,"  I  asked,  "  did  you  go  to  the  dance  in 
Miraflores  last  Saturday  night  with  this  youth?  " 

"  Si,  senor." 

"  Then  I  place  you  under  arrest.  We  will  take 
the  one  o'clock  train." 


256  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

He  opened  his  mouth  to  protest,  but  closed  it 
again  without  having  uttered  a  sound.  He  opened 
it  a  second  time,  then  sat  suddenly  down  on  the  low 
edge  of  the  box-car  porch.  A  more  genuinely  aston- 
ished man  I  have  never  seen.  No  actor  could  have 
approached  it.  Still,  whatever  my  own  conviction, 
it  was  my  business  to  bring  him  before  his  accuser. 
After  a  time  he  recovered  sufficiently  to  ask  permis- 
sion to  change  his  clothes,  and  disappeared  in  one 
of  the  resident  box-cars.  The  boy  was  already  being 
fed  in  another.  Had  my  prisoners  been  of  almost 
any  one  of  the  other  seventy-one  nationalities  I 
should  not  have  thought  of  letting  them  out  of  my 
sight.  But  the  Zone  Spaniard's  respect  for  law  is 
proverbial. 

"  Jose !  Pinched  Jose !  "  cried  his  American  boss, 
when  I  explained  that  he  would  find  himself  a  man 
short  that  afternoon.  "  You  people  are  sure  bark- 
ing up  the  wrong  tree  this  time.  Why,  Jose  has 
been  my  engineer  for  over  two  years,  and  the  steadi- 
est man  on  the  Zone.  He  writes  for  some  Spanish 
paper  and  tells  'em  the  truth  over  there  so  straight 
that  the  rest  of  'em  down  here,  the  anarchists  and 
all  that  bunch,  are  aching  to  get  him  into  trouble. 
But  they  '11  never  get  anything  on  Jose.  Have 
him  tell  you  about  it  in  Spanish  if  you  sabe  the 
lingo." 

But  Jose  was  a  gallego,  whence  instead  of  the 
voluble  flood  of  protesting  words  one  expects  from  a 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  257 

Spaniard  on  such  an  occasion,  he  wrapped  himself 
in  a  stoical  silence.  Not  until  we  were  on  our  way 
to  the  railroad  station  did  I  get  him  to  talk.  Then 
he  explained  in  quiet,  unflowery,  gestureless  language. 

He  had  come  to  the  Canal  Zone  chiefly  to  gather 
literary  material.  Not  being  a  man  of  wealth,  how- 
ever, nor  one  satisfied  with  superficial  observation, 
he  had  sought  employment  at  his  trade  as  stationary 
engineer.  Besides  laying  in  a  stock  for  more  impor- 
tant writing  he  hoped  to  do  in  the  future,  he  was 
Zone  correspondent  of  "  El  Liberal  "  of  Madrid  and 
other  Spanish  cities.  In  the  social  life  of  his  fellow- 
countrymen  on  the  Isthmus  he  had  taken  no  part, 
whatever.  He  was  too  busy.  He  did  not  drink. 
He  could  not  dance ;  he  saw  no  sense  in  squandering 
time  in  such  frivolities.  But  ever  since  his  arrival 
he  had  been  promising  himself  to  attend  one  of 
these  wild  Saturday-night  debauches  in  the  edge  of 
the  jungle  that  he  might  use  a  description  of  it  in 
some  later  work.  So  he  had  coaxed  his  one  personal 
friend,  the  boy,  to  go  with  him.  It  was  virtually 
the  one  thing  besides  work  that  he  had  ever  done  on 
the  Zone.  They  had  stayed  two  hours,  and  had  left 
the  moment  the  trouble  began.  Yet  here  he  was  ar- 
rested. 

I  bade  him  cheer  up,  to  consider  the  trip  to  Ancon 
merely  an  afternoon  excursion  on  government  pass. 
He  remained  downcast. 

"  But  think  of  the  experience ! "  I  cried.     "  Now 


258  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

you  can  tell  exactly  how  it  feels  to  be  arrested  — 
first-hand  literary  material." 

But  he  was  not  philosopher  enough  to  look  at  it 
from  that  point  of  view.  To  his  Spanish  mind  arrest, 
even  in  innocence,  was  a  disgrace  for  which  no 
amount  of  "  material "  could  compensate.  It  is  a 
common  failing.  How  many  of  us  set  out  into  the 
world  for  experience,  yet  growl  with  rage  or  sit 
downcast  and  silent  all  the  way  from  Pedro  Miguel  to 
Panama  if  one  such  experience  gives  us  a  rough  half- 
hour,  or  robs  us  of  ten  minutes  sleep. 

At  the  hospital  the  Peruvian  gurgled  and  spat, 
beckoned  for  paper  and  wrote : 

"  This  is  the  man." 

"What  man?"  I  asked. 

"  The  man  who  came  with  that  man,"  he  scribbled, 
nodding  his  heavy  face  toward  the  blue-eyed  boy. 

"  But  is  this  the  man  that  shot  you?  "  I  demanded. 

"  The  man  who  came  with  that  man  is  the  one,"  he 
scrawled. 

"Well,  then  this  is  the  man  that  shot  you?"  I 
cried. 

But  he  would  not  answer  definitely  to  that,  but  sat 
a  long  time  glaring  out  of  his  swollen,  vindictive 
countenance  propped  up  in  his  pillows  at  the  tall, 
solemn  correspondent.  By  and  by  he  motioned  again 
for  paper. 

"  I  think  so.     I  am  not  sure,"  he  miswrote. 

I  did  not  think  so,  and  as  the  sum  total  of  his 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  259 

descriptions  of  his  assailant  during  the  past  several 
days  amounted  to  "  a  tall  man,  rather  short,  with  a 
face  and  two  eyes  " —  he  was  very  insistent  about 
the  eyes,  which  is  the  reason  the  doll-eyed  boy  had 
fallen  into  the  drag-net  —  I  permitted  myself  to  ac- 
cept my  own  opinion  as  evidence.  The  Peruvian  was 
in  all  likelihood  in  no  condition  to  recognize  a  man 
from  a  loup-garou  by  the  time  the  fracas  started. 
Much  ardent  water  had  flowed  that  night.  I  took 
the  suspects  down  to  Ancon  station  and  let  them 
cool  off  in  porch  rocking-chairs.  Then  I  gave  them 
passes  back  to  Pedro  Miguel  for  the  evening  train. 
The  doll-eyed  boy  smiled  girlishly  upon  me  as  he 
descended  the  steps,  but  the  correspondent  strode 
slowly  away  with  the  downcast,  cheerless  countenance 
of  a  man  who  has  been  hurt  beyond  recovery. 

There  were  strangely  contrasted  days  in  the 
"  gum-shoe's "  calendar.  Two  examples  taken  al- 
most at  random  will  give  the  idea.  On  May  twen- 
tieth I  lolled  all  day  in  a  porch  rocker  at  Ancon 
station,  reading  a  novel.  Along  in  the  afternoon 
Corporal  Castillo  drifted  in.  For  a  time  he  stood 
leaning  against  the  desk-rail,  his  felt  hat  pushed  far 
back  on  his  head,  his  eyes  fixed  on  some  point  in  the 
interior  of  China.  Then  suddenly  he  snatched  up 
a  sheet  of  I.  C.  C.  stationery,  dropped  down  at  a 
typewriter,  and  wrote  at  express  speed  a  letter  in 
Spanish.  Next  he  grasped  a  telephone  and,  in  the 
words  of  the  deskman,  "  spit  Spig  into  the  'phone  " 


260  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

for  several  minutes.  That  over  he  caught  up  an 
envelope,  sealed  the  letter  and  addressed  it.  An  in- 
stant later  the  station  was  in  an  uproar  looking  for 
a  stamp.  One  was  found,  the  Corporal  stuck  it  on 
the  letter,  fell  suddenly  motionless  and  stared  for  a 
long  time  at  vacancy.  Then  a  new  thought  struck 
him.  He  jerked  open  a  drawer  of  the  "  gum-shoe  " 
desk,  flung  the  letter  inside  —  where  I  found  it  acci- 
dentally one  day  some  weeks  afterward  —  and  drop- 
ping into  the  swivel-chair  laid  his  feet  on  the 
"  gum-shoe  "  blotter  and  a  moment  later  seemed  to 
have  fallen  asleep. 

By  all  of  which  signs  those  of  us  who  knew  him 
began  to  suspect  that  the  Corporal  had  something 
on  his  mind.  Not  a  few  considered  him  the  best 
detective  on  the  force;  at  least  he  was  different 
enough  from  a  printer's  ink  detective  to  be  a  real 
one.  But  naturally  the  strain  of  heading  a  de- 
tective bureau  for  weeks  was  beginning  to  wear  upon 
him. 

"Damn  it!"  said  the  Corporal  suddenly,  opening 
his  eyes,  "  I  can't  be  in  six  places  at  once.  You  '11 
have  to  handle  these  cases,"  and  he  drew  from  a 
pocket  and  handed  me  three  typewritten  sheets,  then 
drifted  away  into  the  dusk.  I  looked  them  over  and 
returned  to  the  porch  rocker  and  the  last  chapters 
of  the  novel. 

A  meek  touch  on  the  leg  awoke  me  at  four  next 
morning.  I  looked  up  to  see  dimly  a  black  face 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  261 

under  a  khaki  helmet  bent  over  me  whispering,  "  It 
de  time,  sah,"  and  fade  noiselessly  away.  It  was 
the  frontier  policeman  carrying  out  his  orders  of 
the  night  before.  For  once  there  was  not  a  carriage 
in  sight.  I  stumbled  sleepily  down  into  Panama 
and  for  some  distance  along  Avenida  Central  before 
I  was  able  to  hail  an  all  night  hawk  chasing  a  worn 
little  wreck  of  a  horse  along  the  macadam.  I  spread 
my  lanky  form  over  the  worn  cushions  and  we 
spavined  along  the  graveled  boundary  line,  past  the 
Chinese  cemetery  where  John  can  preserve  and  burn 
joss  to  his  ancestors  to  the  end  of  time,  out  through 
East  Balboa  just  awakening  to  life,  and  reached 
Balboa  docks  as  day  was  breaking.  I  was  not  long 
there,  and  the  equine  caricature  ambled  the  three 
miles  back  to  town  in  what  seemed  reasonable  time, 
considering.  As  we  turned  again  into  Avenida  Cen- 
tral my  watch  told  me  there  was  time  and  to  spare 
to  catch  the  morning  passenger.  I  was  not  a  little 
surprised  therefore  to  hear  just  then  two  sharp 
rings  on  the  station  gong.  I  dived  headlong  into 
the  station  and  brought  up  against  a  locked  gate, 
caught  a  glimpse  of  two  or  three  ladies  weeping  and 
the  tail  of  the  passenger  disappearing  under  the 
bridge.  Americans  have  introduced  the  untropical 
idea  of  starting  their  trains  on  time,  to  the  disgust 
of  the  "  Spig "  in  general  and  the  occasional  dis- 
comfiture of  Americans.  I  dashed  wildly  out  through 
the  station,  across  Panama's  main  street,  down  a 


262  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

rugged  lane  to  the  first  steps  descending  to  the  track, 
and  tumbled  joyously  onto  a  slowly  moving  train  — 
to  discover  that  it  was  the  Balboa  labor-train  and 
that  the  Colon  passenger  was  already  half-way  to 
Diablo  Hill. 

A  Panama  policeman  of  dusky  hue,  leaning  against 
a  gate-post,  eyed  me  drowsily  as  I  slowly  climbed 
the  steps,  mopping  my  brow  and  staring  at  my  watch. 

"What  time  does  that  6:35  train  leave?"  I  de- 
manded. 

"  Yo,  senor,"  he  said  with  ministerial  dignity, 
shifting  slowly  to  the  other  shoulder,  "  no  tengo 
conocimiento  de  esas  cosas  "  (I  have  no  knowledge 
of  those  things). 

He  probably  did  not  know  there  is  a  railroad  from 
Panama  to  Colon.  It  has  only  been  in  operation 
since  1855. 

Later  I  found  the  fault  lay  with  my  brass  watch. 

With  a  perspiration  up  for  all  day  I  set  out  along 
the  track.  Rounding  Diablo  Hill  the  realization 
that  I  was  hungry  came  upon  me  simultaneously 
with  the  thought  that  unless  I  got  through  the  door 
of  Corozal  hotel  by  7:30  I  was  likely  to  remain  so. 
Breakfast  over,  I  caught  the  morning  supply-train 
to  Miraflores,  there  to  dash  through  the  locks  for  a 
five-minute  interview.  I  walked  to  Pedro  Miguel  and, 
descending  from  the  embankment  of  the  main  line, 
"  nailed "  a  dirt-train  returning  empty  and  stood 
up  for  a  breezy  ride  down  through  the  "  cut."  It 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  263 

was  the  same  old  smoky,  toilsome  place,  a  perceptible 
bit  lower.  As  in  the  case  of  a  small  boy  only  those 
can  see  its  growth  who  have  been  away  for  a  time. 
The  train  stopped  with  a  jerk  at  the  foot  of  Culebra. 
I  walked  a  half-mile  and  caught  a  loaded  dirt-train 
to  Cascadas.  The  matter  there  to  be  investigated 
required  ten  minutes.  That  over,  I  "  got  in  touch  " 
at  the  nearest  telephone,  and  the  Corporal's  voice 
called  for  my  immediate  presence  at  headquarters. 
There  chanced  to  be  passing  through  Cascadas  at 
that  moment  a  Panama-bound  freight,  the  caboose 
of  which  caught  me  up  on  the  fly ;  and  forty  minutes 
later  I  was  racing  up  the  long  stairs. 

There  I  learned  among  other  things  that  a  man 
I  was  anxious  to  have  a  word  with  was  coming  in 
on  the  noon  train,  but  would  be  unavailable  after 
arrival.  I  sprang  into  a  cab  and  was  soon  rolling 
away  again,  past  the  Chinese  cemetery.  At  the  com- 
missary crossing  in  East  Balboa  we  were  held  up  by 
an  empty  dirt-train  returning  from  the  dump.  I 
tossed  a  coin  at  the  cabman  and  scrambled  aboard. 
The  train  raced  through  Corozal,  down  the  grade 
and  around  the  curve  at  unslacking  speed.  I 
dropped  off  in  front  of  Miraflores  police  station, 
keeping  my  feet,  thanks  to  practice  and  good  luck, 
and  dashing  up  through  the  village,  dragged  myself 
breathlessly  aboard  the  passenger  train  as  its  head 
and  shoulders  had  already  disappeared  in  the  tunnel. 

The  ticket-collector  pointed  out  my  man  to  me 


264  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

in  the  first  passenger  coach,  the  "  ladies'  car  " —  he 
is  a  school-teacher  and  tobacco  smoke  distresses  him 
—  and  by  the  time  we  pulled  into  Panama  I  had  the 
desired  information.  Dinner  was  not  to  be  thought 
of;  I  had  barely  time  to  dash  through  the  second- 
class  gate  and  back  along  the  track  to  Balboa  labor- 
train.  From  the  docks  a  sand-train  carried  me  to 
Pedro  Miguel. 

There  was  a  craneman  in  Bas  Obispo  "  cut " 
whose  testimony  was  wanted.  I  reached  him  by 
two  short  walks  and  a  ride.  His  statements  sug- 
gested the  advisability  of  questioning  his  room-mate, 
a  towerman  in  Miraflores  freight-yards.  Luck 

would  have  it  that  my  chauffeur  friend was  just 

then  passing  with  an  I.  C.  C.  motor-car  and  only  a 
photographer  for  a  New  York  weekly  aboard.  I 
found  room  to  squeeze  in.  The  car  raced  away 
through  the  "  cut,"  up  the  declivity,  and  dropped 
me  at  the  foot  of  the  tower.  The  room-mate  re- 
ferred me  to  a  locomotive  engineer  and,  being  a 
towerman,  gave  me  the  exact  location  of  his  engine. 
I  found  it  at  the  foot  of  Cucaracha  slide  with  a  train 
nearly  loaded.  By  the  time  the  engineer  had  added 
his  whit  of  information,  we  were  swinging  around 
toward  the  Pacific  dump.  I  dropped  off  and,  climb- 
ing up  the  flank  of  Ancon  hill,  descended  through 
the  hospital  grounds. 

Where  the  royal  palms  are  finest  and  there  opens 
out  the  broadest  view  of  Panama,  Ancon,  and  the 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  265 

bay,  I  gave  myself  five  minutes'  pause,  after  which 
a  carriage  bore  me  to  a  shop  near  Cathedral  Plaza 
where  second-hand  goods  are  bought  —  and  no  ques- 
tions asked.  On  the  way  back  to  Ancon  station  I 
visited  two  similar  establishments. 

I  had  been  lolling  in  the  swivel-chair  a  full  ten 
minutes,  perhaps,  when  the  telephone  rang.  It  was 
*'  the  Captain  "  calling  for  me.  When  I  reached  the 
third-story  back  he  handed  me  extradition  papers  to 
the  Secretary  of  Foreign  Affairs  in  Panama.  A 
half-hour  later,  wholly  outstripping  the  manana  idea, 
I  had  signed  a  receipt  for  the  Jap  in  question  and 
transferred  him  from  Panama  to  Ancon  jail.  Where- 
upon I  descended  to  the  evening  passenger  and  rode 
to  Pedro  Miguel  for  five  minutes'  conversa- 
tion, and  caught  the  labor-train  Panamaward.  At 
Corozal  I  stepped  off  for  a  word  with  the  officer  on 
the  platform  and  the  labor-train  plunged  on  again, 
after  the  fashion  of  labor-trains,  spilling  the  last 
half  of  its  disembarking  passengers  along  the  way. 
Ten  minutes  later  the  headlight  of  the  last  passenger 
swung  around  the  curve  and  carried  me  away  to 
Panama. 

That  might  have  done  for  the  day,  but  I  had 
gathered  a  momentum  it  was  hard  to  check.  Not 
long  after  returning  from  the  police  mess  to  the 
swivel  chair  a  slight  omission  in  the  day's  program 
occurred  to  me.  I  called  up  Corozal  police  sta- 
tion. 


266  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

"  What?  "  said  a  mashed-potato  voice  at  the  other 
end  of  the  wire. 

"Who's  talking?" 

"  Policeman  Green,  sah." 

"  Station  commander  there  ?  " 

"  No,  sah.  Station  commander  he  gone  just  over 
to  de  Y.  M.  to  play  billiards,  sah.  Dey  one  big 
match  on  to-night." 

Of  course  I  could  have  "  got "  him  there.  But 
on  second  thoughts  it  would  be  better  to  see  him  in 
person  and  clear  up  at  the  same  time  a  little  matter 
in  one  of  the  labor  camps,  and  not  run  the  risk  of 
causing  the  loss  of  the  billiard  championship.  Be- 
sides Corozal  is  cooler  to  sleep  in  than  Ancon.  In 
a  black  starry  night  I  set  out  along  the  invisible 
railroad  for  the  first  station. 

An  hour  later,  everything  settled  to  my  satisfac- 
tion, I  had  discovered  a  vacant  bed  in  Corozal  bach- 
elor quarters  and  was  pulling  off  my  coat  pre- 
paratory to  the  shower-bath  and  a  well-earned 
night's  repose.  Suddenly  I  heard  a  peculiar  noise 
in  the  adjoining  room,  much  like  that  of  a  seal  com- 
ing to  the  surface  after  being  long  under  water. 
My  curiosity  awakened,  I  sauntered  a  few  feet  along 
the  veranda.  Beside  one  of  the  cots  stood  a  short, 
roly-poly  little  man,  the  lower  third  of  whom  showed 
rosy  pink  below  his  bell-shaped  white  nightie.  As 
he  turned  his  face  toward  the  light  to  switch  it  off 
I  swallowed  the  roof  of  my  mouth  and  clawed  at  the 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  267 

clap-boarding  for  support.  It  was  "  the  Sloth ! " 
He  had  been  transferred.  I  slipped  hastily  into  my 
coat  and,  turning  up  the  collar,  plunged  out  into 
the  rain  and  the  night  and  stumbled  blindly  away 
on  weary  legs  towards  Panama. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THERE  were  four  of  us  that  Sunday.  "  Bish  " 
and  I  always  went  for  an  afternoon  swim  un- 
less police  or  mess  duties  forbade.  Then  there  was 
Bridgley,  who  had  also  once  displayed  his  svelte 
form  in  a  Z.  P.  uniform  to  admiring  tourists,  but 
was  now  a  pursuer  of  "  soldiering  "  Hindus  on  Naos 
Island.  I  wish  I  could  describe  Bridgley  for  you. 
But  if  you  never  knew  him  ten  pages  would  give  you 
no  clearer  idea,  and  if  you  ever  did,  the  mere  mention 
of  the  name  Bridgley  will  be  full  and  ample  descrip- 
tion. Still,  if  you  must  have  some  sort  of  a  lay  fig- 
ure to  hang  your  imaginings  on,  think  of  a  man 
who  always  reminds  you  of  a  slender,  delicate  porce- 
lain vase  of  great  antiquity  that  you  know  a  strong 
wind  would  smash  to  fragments, —  yet  when  you  ac- 
cidentally swat  it  off  the  mantelpiece  to  the  floor  it 
bobs  up  without  a  crack.  Then  you  grow  bolder 
and  more  curious  and  jump  on  it  with  both  feet 
in  your  hob-nailed  boots,  and  to  your  astonishment 
it  not  only  does  not  break  but  — 

Well,  Bridgley  was  one  of  us  that  Sunday  after- 
noon; and  then  there  was  "the  Admiral,"  well- 
dressed  as  always,  who  turned  up  at  the  last  mo- 
ment; for  which  we  were  glad,  as  any  one  would  be 

268 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  269 

to  have  "  the  Admiral  "  along.  So  we  descended  into 
Panama  by  the  train-guard  short-cut  and  across 
the  bridge  that  humps  its  back  over  the  P.  R.  R. 
like  a  cat  in  unsocial  mood,  and  on  through  Cale- 
donia out  along  the  beach  sands  past  the  old  iron 
hulls  about  which  Panamanian  laborers  are  always 
tinkering  under  the  impression  that  they  are  work- 
ing. This  time  we  walked.  I  don't  recall  now 
whether  it  was  quarter-cracks,  or  the  Lieutenant 
had  n't  slept  well  —  no,  it  could  n't  have  been  that, 
for  the  Lieutenant  never  let  his  personal  mishaps 
trample  on  his  good  nature  —  or  whether  "  Bish  " 
had  decided  to  try  to  reduce  weight.  At  any  rate 
we  were  afoot,  and  thereby  hangs  the  tale  —  or  as 
much  of  a  tale  as  there  is  to  tell. 

We  tramped  resolutely  on  along  the  hard  curving 
beach  past  the  disheveled  bath-houses  before  which 
ladies  from  the  Zone  gather  in  some  force  of  a  Sun- 
day afternoon.  For  this  time  we  were  really  out 
for  a  swim  rather  than  to  display  our  figures.  On 
past  the  light-brown  bathers,  and  the  chocolate- 
colored  bathers,  and  the  jet  black  bathers  who 
seemed  to  consider  that  color  covering  enough,  till 
we  came  to  the  big  silent  saw-mill  at  the  edge  of  the 
cocoanut  grove  that  we  had  been  invited  long  since 
to  make  a  Z.  P.  dressing-room. 

Before  us  spread  the  reposing,  powerful,  sun- 
shimmering  Pacific.  Across  the  bay,  clear  as  an 
etching,  lay  Panama  backed  by  Ancon  hill.  In 


270  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

regular  cadence  the  ocean  swept  in  with  a  hoarse, 
resistless  roll  on  the  sands. 

We  dived  in,  keeping  an  eye  out  for  the  sharks  we 
knew  never  come  so  far  in  and  probably  would  n't 
bite  if  they  did.  The  sun  blazed  down  white  hot 
from  a  cloudless  sky.  This  time  the  Lieutenant  and 
Sergeant  Jack  had  not  been  able  to  come,  but  we 
arranged  the  races  and  jumps  on  the  sand  for  all 
that,  and  went  into  them  with  a  will  and  — 

A  rain-drop  fell.  Nor  was  it  long  lonesome.  Be- 
fore we  had  finished  the  hundred-yard  dash  we  were 

in  the  midst  of it  was  undeniably  raining. 

Half  a  moment  later  "  bucketsful  "  would  have  been 
a  weak  simile.  All  the  pent  up  four  months  of  an 
extra  long  rainy  season  seemed  to  have  been  loosed 
without  warning.  The  blanket  of  water  blotted  out 
Panama  and  Ancon  hill  across  the  bay,  blotted  out 
the  distant  American  bathers,  then  the  light-brown 
ones,  then  the  chocolate-tinted,  then  even  the  jet 
black  ones  close  at  hand. 

We  remained  under  water  for  a  time  to  keep  dry. 
But  the  rain  whipped  our  faces  as  with  thousands 
of  stinging  lashes.  We  crawled  out  and  dashed 
blindly  up  the  bank  toward  the  saw-mill,  the  rain 
beating  on  our  all  but  bare  skins,  feeling  as  it  might 
to  stand  naked  in  Miraflores  locks  and  let  the  sand 
pour  down  upon  us  from  sixty  feet  above.  When 
at  last  we  stumbled  under  cover  and  up  the 
stairs  to  where  our  clothing  hung,  it  was  as  if  a 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  273 

weight  of  many  tons  had  been  lifted  from  our 
shoulders. 

The  saw-mill  was  without  side-walls ;  consisted 
only  of  a  sheet-iron  roof  and  floors,  on  the  former 
of  which  the  storm  pounded  with  a  roar  that  made 
only  the  sign  language  feasible.  It  was  now  as  if 
we  were  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  solid  walls  of 
water  and  forever  shut  off  from  the  outer  world  — 
if  indeed  that  had  survived.  Sheets  of  water 
slashed  in  further  and  further  across  the  floor.  We 
took  to  huddling  behind  beams  and  under  saw-benches 
—  the  militant  storm  hunted  us  out  and  wetted  us 
bit  by  bit.  "  The  Admiral "  and  I  tucked  ourselves 
away  on  the  45-degree  eye-beams  up  under  the  roar- 
ing roof.  The  angry  water  gathered  together  in 
columns  and  swept  in  and  up  to  soak  us. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  the  downpour  had  increased 
some  hundred  per  cent.  It  was  as  if  an  express 
train  going  at  full  speed  had  gradually  doubled  its 
rapidity.  That  was  the  day  when  little  harmless 
streams  tore  themselves  apart  into  great  gorges  and 
left  their  pathetic  little  bridges  alone  and  deserted 
out  in  the  middle  of  the  gulf.  That  was  the  famous 
May  twelfth,  1912,  when  Ancon  recorded  the  greatest 
rainfall  in  her  history, —  7.23  inches,  virtually  all 
within  three  hours.  Three  of  us  were  ready  to  sur- 
render and  swim  home  through  it.  But  there  was 
"  the  Admiral  "  to  consider.  He  was  dressed  clear 
to  his  scarf-pin  —  and  Panama  tailors  tear  horrible 


274  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

holes  in  a  police  salary.  So  we  waited  and  dodged 
and  squirmed  into  closer  holes  for  another  hour; 
and  grew  steadily-  wetter. 

Then  at  length  dusk  began  to  fall,  and  instead  of 
slacking  with  the  day  the  fury  of  the  storm  increased. 
It  was  then  that  "  the  Admiral "  capitulated,  seeing 
fate  plainly  in  league  with  his  tailor;  and  wigwag- 
ging the  decision  to  us  beside  him,  he  led  the 
way  down  the  stairs  and  dived  into  the  world 
awash. 

Wet?  We  had  not  taken  the  third  step  before 
we  were  streaming  like  fire  hose.  There  was  nearly 
an  hour  of  it,  splashing  knee-deep  through  what  had 
been  when  we  came  out  little  dry  sandy  hollows ; 
steering  by  guess,  for  the  eye  could  make  out  nothing 
fifty  yards  ahead,  even  before  the  cheese-thick  dark- 
ness fell ;  bowed  like  nonogenarians  under  the  burden 
of  water;  staggering  back  and  forth  as  the  storm 
caught  us  crosswise  or  the  earth  gave  way  under 
us.  "  The  Admiral's  "  patent-leather  shoes  —  but 
why  go  into  painful  details?  Those  who  were  in 
Panama  on  that  memorable  afternoon  can  picture 
it  all  for  themselves,  and  the  others  will  never  know. 
The  wall  of  water  was  as  thick  as  ever  when  we  fought 
our  bowed  and  weary  way  up  over  the  railroad 
bridge  and,  summoning  up  the  last  strength,  splurged 
tottering  into  "  Angelinas." 

When  our  streaming  had  so  far  subsided  that 
they  recognised  us  for  solvent  human  beings,  cncour- 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  275 

aging  concoctions  were  set  before  us.  Bridgley, 
fearing  the  after  effects,  acquired  a  further  quart 
bottle  of  protection,  and  when  we  had  gathered 
force  for  the  last  dash  we  plunged  out  once  more 
toward  our  several  goals.  As  the  door  of  111 
slammed  behind  me,  the  downpour  suddenly  slack- 
ened. As  I  paused  before  my  room  to  drain,  it 
stopped  raining. 

I  supped  on  bread,  beer,  and  cheese  from  over  the 
frontier  —  we  had  arrived  thirty  seconds  too  late 
for  Ancon  police  mess.  Then  when  I  had  saved 
what  was  salvable  from  the  wreckage  and  reclad  in 
such  wardrobe  as  had  luckily  remained  at  home,  I 
strolled  over  toward  the  police  station  to  put  in  a 
serene  and  quiet  evening. 

But  it  has  long  since  been  established  that  troubles 
flock  together.  As  I  crunched  up  the  gravel  walk 
between  the  hedge-rows,  wild  riot  broke  on  my  ear. 
Ancon  police  station  was  in  eruption.  From  the 
Lieutenant  to  the  newest  uniformless  "  rookie  "  every 
member  of  the  force  was  swarming  in  and  out  of  the 
building.  The  Zone  and  Panama  telephones  were 
ringing  in  their  two  opposing  dialects,  the  deskman 
was  shouting  his  own  peculiar  brand  of  Spanish  into 
one  receiver  and  bawling  English  at  the  other,  all 
hands  were  diving  into  old  clothes,  the  most  apa- 
thetic of  the  force  were  girding  up  their  loins  with 
the  adventurous  fire  of  the  old  Moro-hunting  days 
in  their  eyes,  and  all,  some  ahorse,  more  afoot,  were 


276  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

dashing   one   by    one   out   into   the   night   and   the 
jungle. 

It  was  several  minutes  before  I  could  catch  the 
news.  At  last  it  was  shouted  at  me  over  a  telephone. 
Murder !  A  white  Greek  —  who  ever  heard  of  a  col- 
ored Greek  ?  —  with  a  white  shirt  on  had  shot  a  man 
at  Pedro  Miguel  at  6:35.  Every  road  and  bypath 
of  escape  to  Panama  was  already  blocked,  armed 
men  would  meet  the  assassin  whatever  way  he  might 
take.  I  went  down  to  meet  the  evening  train,  re- 
solved after  that  to  strike  out  into  the  night  in  the 
random  hope  of  having  my  share  in  the  chase.  It 
had  begun  to  rain  again,  but  only  moderately,  as 
if  it  realized  it  could  never  again  equal  the  afternoon 
record. 

Then  suddenly  the  excitement  exploded.  It  was 
only  a  near-murder.  Two  Colombians  had  been  shot, 
but  would  in  all  probability  recover.  The  news 
reached  me  as  I  stood  at  the  second-class  gate  scan- 
ning the  faces  of  the  great  multicolored  river  of 
passengers  that  poured  out  into  the  city.  For  two 
hours,  one  by  one  with  crestfallen  mien,  the  man- 
hunters  leaked  back  into  Ancon  station  and,  the  case 
having  dwindled  to  one  of  regular  daily  routine,  by 
eleven  we  were  all  abed. 

In  the  morning  the  "  Greek  chase  "  fell  to  me. 
More  detailed  description  of  the  culprit  had  come 
in  during  the  night,  including  the  bit  of  information 
that  he  was  a  bad  man  from  the  Isle  of  Crete. 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  277 

The  belt-straining  No.  38  oiled  and  loaded,  I  set  off 
on  an  assignment  that  was  at  least  a  relief  after 
pursuing  stolen  necklaces  for  negro  women,  or  crow- 
bars lost  by  the  I.  C.  C. 

By  nine  I  was  climbing  to  Pedro  Miguel  police 
station  on  its  knoll  with  the  young  Greek  who  had 
exchanged  hats  with  the  assassin  after  the  crime. 
That  afternoon  a  volunteer  joined  me.  He  was  a 
friend  of  the  wounded  men,  a  Peruvian  black  as  jade, 
but  without  a  suggestion  of  the  negro  in  anything 
but  his  outward  appearance.  He  was  of  the  size 
and  build  of  a  Sampson  in  his  prime,  spoke  a  Spanish 
so  clear-cut  it  seemed  to  belie  his  African  blood,  and 
had  the  restless  vigor  acquired  in  a  youth  of  tramping 
over  the  Andine  ranges. 

I  piled  him  into  a  cab  and  we  rolled  away  to  East 
Balboa,  to  climb  upon  an  empty  dirt-train  and  drop 
off  as  it  raced  through  Miraflores,  the  sturdy  legs 
of  the  Peruvian  saving  him  where  his  practice  would 
not  have.  Up  in  the  bush  between  Pedro  Miguel 
and  Paraiso  we  found  a  hut  where  the  Greek  had 
stopped  for  water  and  gone  on  up  a  gully.  We  set 
out  to  follow,  mounting  partly  on  hands  and  knees, 
partly  dragging  ourselves  by  grass  and  bushes  up 
what  had  been  and  would  soon  be  again  a  torrential 
mountain  stream.  For  hours  we  tore  through  the 
jungle,  up  hills  steeper  than  the  path  of  righteous- 
ness, following  now  a  few  faint  foot-prints  or 
trampled  bushes,  now  a  hint  from  some  native  bush 


278  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

dweller.  The  rain  outside  vied  with  the  sweat  within 
as  to  which  would  first  soak  us  through.  To  make 
things  merrier  I  had  not  only  to  wear  an  arsenal  but 
a  coat  atop  to  conceal  it  from  the  general  public. 

To  mention  the  holes  I  crawled  into  and  the  clues 
I  followed  during  the  next  few  days  would  be  more 
tiresome  than  a  Puritan  prayer.  By  day  I  was  dash- 
ing back  and  forth  through  all  Ancon  district,  by 
night  prowling  about  the  grimier  sections  of  Panama 
city.  Almost  daily  I  got  near  enough  to  sniff  the 
prey.  Now  it  was  a  Greek  confectioner  on  Avenida 
Central  who  admitted  that  the  fugitive  had  called 
on  him  during  the  night,  now  a  Panamanian  pesquisa 
whose  stool-pigeon  had  seen  him  out  in  the  bush, 
then  the  information  that  he  had  stopped  to  shave 
and  otherwise  alter  his  appearance  in  some  shack 
half-way  across  the  Zone  and  afterward  struck  off 
for  Panama  by  an  unused  route.  The  clues  were 
pendulum-like.  They  took  me  a  half-dozen  times  at 
least  out  the  winding  highway  to  Corozal,  on  to 
Miraflores  and  even  further.  The  rainy  season  and 
the  reign  of  umbrellas  had  come.  It  had  been  form- 
ally opened  on  that  memorable  Sunday  afternoon. 
There  was  still  sunshine  at  times,  but  always  a  wet 
season  heaviness  to  the  atmosphere;  and  the  rains 
were  already  giving  the  rolling  jungle  hills  a  tinge 
of  new  green.  There  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by 
hurrying.  The  fugitive  was  as  likely  to  crawl  forth 
from  one  place  as  another  along  the  rambling  road. 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  279 

Here  I  paused  to  kill  a  lizard  or  to  watch  the  clumsy 
march  of  one  of  the  huge  purple  and  many-colored 
land-crabs,  there  to  gaze  away  across  a  jungled 
valley  soft  and  fuzzy  in  the  humid  air  like  some 
Corot  painting. 

I  even  sailed  for  San  Francisco  in  the  quest.  For 
of  course  each  outgoing  ship  must  be  searched.  One 
day  I  had  word  that  a  "  windjammer  "  was  about  to 
sail ;  and  racing  out  to  Balboa  I  was  soon  set  aboard 
the  fore  and  aft  schooner  Meteor  far  out  in  the 
bay.  When  I  plunged  down  into  the  cabin  the 
peeled-headed  German  captain  was  seated  at  a  table 
before  a  heap  of  "  Spig "  dollars,  paying  off  his 
black  shore  hands.  He  solemnly  asserted  he  had  no 
Greek  aboard,  and  still  more  solemnly  swore  that  if 
he  found  one  stowed  away  h^  would  turn  him  over 
to  the  police  in  San  Francisco  —  which  was  kind  of 
him  but  would  not  have  helped  matters.  There  are 
several  men  running  gaily  about  San  Francisco 
streets  who  would  be  very  welcome  in  certain  quarters 
on  the  Zone  and  sure  of  lodging  and  food  for  a 
long  time  to  come. 

By  this  time  the  tug  Bolivar  had  us  in  tow,  the 
captain  went  racing  over  his  ship  like  any  of  his 
crew,  tugging  at  the  ropes,  and  we  were  gliding  out 
across  Panama  bay,  past  the  little  greening  islands, 
the  curving  panorama  of  the  city  and  Ancon  hill 
growing  smaller  and  smaller  behind  —  bound  for 
'Frisco.  What  ho!  the  merry  "windjammer"  with 


280  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

her  stowed  sails  and  smell  of  tar  awakened  within 
me  old  memories,  hungry  and  grimy  for  the  most 
part.  But  this  was  no  independent,  self-respecting 
member  of  the  Wind-wafted  sisterhood.  Far  out  in 
the  offing  lay  a  steamer  of  the  same  line  that  was 
to  tow  the  Meteor  to  the  Golden  Gate!  How  is  the 
breed  of  sailors  fallen !  The  few  laborers  aboard 
would  take  an  occasional  wheel,  pick  oakum,  and 
yarn  their  unadventurous  yarns.  As  we  drew  near,  a 
boat  was  lowered  to  set  me  aboard  the  steamer,  to 
the  rail-crowding  surprise  of  her  passengers,  who 
fancied  they  had  hours  since  seen  the  last  of  Zone 
and  "  Zoners."  The  captain  asserted  he  had  nothing 
aboard  grown  nearer  Greece  than  three  Irishmen, 
any  one  of  whom  —  f acetiousness  seemed  to  be  one 
of  the  captain's  characteristics  —  I  might  have  and 
welcome.  A  few  moments  later  I  was  back  aboard 
the  tug  waving  farewell  to  steamer  and  "  windjam- 
mer "  as  they  pushed  away  into  the  twilight  sea,  and 
the  Bolivar  turned  shoreward. 

I  received  a  "  straight  tip  "  one  evening  that  the 
fugitive  Greek  was  hiding  in  a  hovel  on  the  Cruces 
trail.  What  part  of  the  Cruces  trail,  the  informant 
did  not  hint ;  but  he  described  the  hut  in  some  detail. 
So  next  morning  as  the  thick  gray  dawn  of  this 
tropical  land  was  melting  into  day,  I  descended  at 
Bas  Obispo,  through  the  canal  to  Gamboa  and  struck 
off  into  the  dense  dripping  jungle.  The  rainy  season 
had  greened  things  up  and  gone  —  temporarily,  of 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  281 

course,  for  in  a  day  or  two  it  would  be  on  us  again 
in  all  tropical  fury.  In  the  few  days  since  the  first 
rain  the  landscape  had  changed  like  a  theater  decora- 
tion, a  green  not  even  to  be  imagined  in  the  temperate 
zone. 

It  turned  out  that  the  ancient  village  of  Cruces 
was  a  mere  two-mile  stroll  from  the  canal,  a  thatch- 
roofed  native  town  of  some  thirty  dwellings  on  the 
rocky  shore  of  an  inner  curve  of  the  Chagres,  where 
travelers  from  Balboa  to  the  last  "  Forty-niner " 
disembarked  from  their  thirty-six  mile  ride  up  the 
river  and  struck  on  along  the  ten-mile  road  through 
the  jungle  to  Panama  —  the  famous  Cruces  trail. 
Except  for  its  associations  the  village  was  without 
interest  —  except  some  personal  Greek  interest. 
Sour  looks  were  chiefly  my  portion,  for  the  villagers 
have  never  taken  kindly  to  Americans. 

I  soon  sought  out  the  trail,  here  a  mere  path  un- 
dulating through  rank,  wet-hot,  locust  singing  jun- 
gle. Here  in  the  tangled  somber  mystery  of  the 
wilderness  grew  every  tropical  thing ;  countless  giant 
ferns,  draping  tangles  of  vines,  the  mango  tree  with 
its  rounded  dome  of  leaves  like  the  mosque  of  Omar 
done  in  greenery,  the  humble  pine-apple  with  its 
unproportionate  fruit,  everywhere  the  banana,  king 
of  vegetables,  clothed  in  its  own  immense  leaves,  the 
frondy  zapote,  now  and  then  in  a  hollow  a  clump  of 
yellowish-green  bamboo,  though  not  numerous  or 
nearly  so  large  as  in  many  another  tropical  land, 


282  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

above  all  else  the  symmetrical  Gothic  fronds  of  the 
palm  nodding  in  a  breeze  the  more  humble  vegetation 
could  not  know.  The  constant  music  of  insect  life 
sounded  in  my  ears ;  everywhere  were  flowers  of  bril- 
liant hue,  masses  of  bush  blossoms  not  unlike  the 
lilac  in  appearance,  but  like  all  down  on  the  Isthmus, 
odorless  —  or  rather  with  a  pungent  scent,  like 
strong  catsup. 

Four  months  earlier  I  should  have  been  chary  of 
diving  back  into  the  Panamanian  "  bush "  alone, 
above  all  on  a  criminal  hunt.  But  it  needs  only  a 
little  time  on  the  Zone  to  make  one  laugh  at  the 
absurd  stories  of  danger  from  the  bush  native  that 
are  even  yet  appearing  in  many  U.  S.  papers.  They 
are  not  over  friendly  to  whites,  it  is  true.  But  they 
were  all  of  that  familiar  languid  Central  American 
type,  blinking  at  me  apathetically  out  of  the  shade 
of  their  huts,  crowding  to  one  edge  of  the  trail  as 
I  passed,  eying  me  silently,  a  bit  morosely,  somewhat 
frightened  because  their  experience  of  Americans  is 
of  a  discourteous  creature  who  shouts  at  them  in  a 
strange  tongue  and  swears  at  them  because  they  do 
not  understand  it.  The  moment  they  heard  their 
own  customary  greetings  they  changed  to  children 
delighted  to  do  anything  to  oblige  —  even  to  the  ex- 
tent of  dragging  their  indolent  forms  erect  to  lead 
the  way  a  quarter-mile  through  the  bush  to  some 
isolated  shack.  Far  from  contemplating  any  injury, 
all  these  wayward  children  of  the  jungle  ask  is  to 


"Any  hut  might  be  a  hiding-place' 


Cruces  on  the  Chagres 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  285 

be  let  alone  to  drift  through  life  in  their  own  way. 
Still  more  absurd  is  the  notion  of  danger  from  wild 
beasts  —  other  than  the  tiny  wild  beast  that  burrows 
its  painful  way  under  the  skin. 

So  I  pushed  on,  halting  at  many  huts  to  make 
covert  inquiries.  It  was  a  joyous,  brilliant  day  over- 
head. Down  in  the  dense,  rampant,  singing  jungle 
I  sweated  profusely  —  and  enjoyed  it.  Choking  for 
a  drink  hi  a  hutless  section,  I  took  one  of  the  crooked, 
tunnel-like  trails  to  the  left  in  the  direction  of  the 
Chagres.  But  it  squirmed  off  through  thick  jungle, 
through  banana  groves  and  untended  pine-apple  gar- 
dens to  come  out  at  last  at  an  astonished  hut  on  a 
knoll,  from  which  was  not  to  be  seen  a  sign  of  the 
river.  I  crawled  through  another  struggling  side- 
trail  further  on  and  this  time  reached  the  stream, 
but  at  a  bank  too  sheer  and  bush-matted  to  descend. 
The  third  attempt  brought  me  to  where  the  river 
made  a  graceful  bend  at  my  feet  and  I  descended  an 
abrupt  jungle  bank  to  drink  and  stroll  a  bit  along 
the  stony  shore;  then  plunged  in  for  a  swim.  It  was 
just  the  right  temperature,  with  dense  jungle  banks 
on  either  side  like  great  green  unscalable  walls,  the 
water  clear  and  a  bit  over  waist  deep  in  the  middle 
of  the  stream.  Now  and  then  around  the  one  or 
the  other  bend  came  a  cayuca,  the  native  dug-out 
made  of  the  hollowed  trunk  of  a  tree,  usually  the 
cedro  —  though  to  a  jungle  native  any  tree  is  a 
"  cedro  "  if  he  does  not  happen  to  think  of  its  right 


286  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

name.  Twenty  to  thirty  feet  long,  sometimes  piled 
high  with  vegetables,  sometimes  with  several  natives 
seated  Indian  file  in  the  bottom,  the  gunwales  a  bare 
two  or  three  inches  above  the  water,  they  needed  nice 
management,  especially  in  the  rapids  below  Cruces. 
The  locomotive  power,  generally  naked  to  the  waist, 
stood  up  in  the  craft  and  climbed  his  polanca,  or 
long  pike  pole,  hand  over  hand,  every  naked  brown 
muscle  in  play,  moving  in  perfect  rhythm  and  ap- 
parent ease  even  up-stream  against  the  powerful 
current. 

Soon  after  Chagres  and  trail  parted  company,  the 
former  to  wind  on  up  through  the  jungle  hills  to  its 
birthplace  in  the  land  of  Darien  and  wild  Indians, 
the  latter  to  strike  for  the  Pacific.  Over  a  mildly 
rough  country  it  led,  down  into  tangled  ravines,  up 
over  dense  forested  hillocks  where  the  jungle  had  been 
fought  back  by  Uncle  Sam  and  on  the  brows  of  which 
I  halted  to  drink  of  the  fresh  breeze  sweeping  across 
from  the  Atlantic.  All  this  time  not  a  suggestion  of 
anything  Greek,  though  I  managed  by  some  simple 
strategy  to  cast  a  sweeping  glance  into  every  hovel 
along  the  way. 

Then  came  the  real  Cruces  trail  —  the  rest  only 
follows  the  general  direction.  I  fell  upon  it  unex- 
pectedly.  It  is  still  there  as  it  was  when  the  Peru- 
vian viceroys  and.  their  glittering  trains  clattered 
along  it,  surprisingly  well  preserved ;  a  cobbled  way 
some  three  feet  wide  of  that  rough  and  bumpy  variety 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  287 

the  Spaniard  even  to-day  fancies  a  real  road,  broken 
in  places  but  still  well  marked,  leading1  away  south- 
ward through  the  wilderness. 

Overhead  were  tall  spreading  trees  laden  with  blos- 
somless  orchids.  Under  some  of  them  was  broad 
grassy  shade ;  but  the  surrounding  wall  of  vegetation 
cut  off  all  breeze.  The  way  was  intersected  by  many 
roads  of  leaf-cutting  ants,  as  level,  wide  and  well- 
built  in  their  proportion  as  the  old  Roman  high- 
ways, with  such  an  industrious  throng  going  and 
coming  upon  them  as  one  could  find  nowhere 
equaled,  unless  it  be  on  the  Grand  Trunk  Road  of 
India. 

Then  suddenly  there  appeared  the  hut  that  had 
been  described  to  me.  I  surrounded  it  and,  hand 
upon  the  butt  of  my  No.  38,  closed  in  upon  the 
place,  then  rushed  it  with  all  forces. 

There  was  not  a  sign  of  human  life  in  the  vicinity. 
The  door  was  tied  shut  with  a  single  strand  of  old 
rope,  but  there  was  no  question  that  the  fugitive 
might  be  hiding  inside,  for  the  reed  walls  had  holes 
in  them  large  enough  to  drive  a  sheep  through,  and 
there  was  nothing  within  to  hide  behind.  I  thrust 
an  arm  through  an  opening  and  dragged  the  large 
and  heavy  earthenware  water- jar  to  me  for  a  drink, 
and  pushed  on. 

Squatter's  cabins  were  now  appearing,  as  con- 
trasted with  the  native  bushman's  peaked  hut ;  sleep- 
ing-places thrown  together  of  tin  cans,  boxes  and 


288  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

jungle  rubbish,  many  negro  shanties  built  of  I.  C.  C. 
scraps  —  all  of  which  announced  the  vicinity  of  the 
canal.  Any  hut  might  be  a  hiding-place.  I  made 
ostensibly  casual  inquiries,  interlarded  between 
stories,  at  several  of  them,  and  at  length  established 
that  the  Greek  had  been  there  not  long  before,  but 
was  elsewhere  now.  Then  about  four  of  the  after- 
noon I  burst  out  suddenly  in  sight  of  a  broad  mod- 
ern highway,  and  leaving  the  ancient  route  as  it 
headed  away  toward  Old  Panama,  I  turned  aside  to 
the  modern  city. 

Then  I  was  "  called  off  the  Greek  chase  " ;  and  a 
couple  of  evenings  later,  along  with  the  evening  train 
and  the  evening  fog,  the  Inspector  "  blew  in  "  from 
his  forty-two  days'  vacation  in  the  States,  like  a 
breath  from  far-off  Broadway.  Buffalo  Bill  had 
been  duly  opened  and  started  on  his  season's  way, 
the  absent  returned,  and  Corporal  Castillo  suddenly 
dwindled  again  to  a  mere  corporal. 

As  everything  must  have  its  flaws,  perhaps  the 
chief  one  that  might  be  charged  against  the  Z.  P.  is 
"  red  tape."  Strictly  speaking  it  is  no  Z.  P.  fault 
at  all,  but  a  weakness  of  all  government.  One  ex- 
ample will  suffice. 

During  the  month  of  May  I  was  assigned  the  in- 
vestigation of  certain  alleged  conditions  in  Panama's 
restricted  district.  The  then  head  of  the  plain- 
clothes  division  gave  me  carte  blanche,  but  suggested 
that  I  need  not  spare  my  expense  account  in  libating 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  289 

the  various  establishments  until  I  "  got  acquainted  " 
sufficiently  with  the  inmates  to  pick  up  indirectly  the 
information  desired. 

Which  general  line  I  followed  and,  the  information 
having  been  gathered  and  the  report  made  up,  I  pro- 
ceed to  make  out  my  expenditures  of  $45  for  the 
month  to  forward  to  Empire  for  reimbursement. 
Now  it  needs  no  deep  detective  experience  to  know 
that  in  such  cases  you  naturally  begin  with,  "  Well, 
what  you  going  to  drink,  girls?"  and  end  by  pay- 
ing the  bill  in  a  lump  sum  —  a  large  lump  sum  — 
and  go  your  way  in  peace.  What  more  then  could 
I  do  than  set  down  such  items  as : 

"  May  12,  Liquor,  investigation,  Panama  — 
$6.50?  " 

But  here  I  began  to  feel  the  tangling  strands. 
Was  it  not  stated  that  all  applications  for  reimburse- 
ment required  an  exact  itemized  account  of  each  sep- 
arate expenditure,  with  the  price  of  each?  It  did. 
But  in  the  first  place  I  did  not  know  half  the  bever- 
>»ages  consumed  in  that  investigation  by  sight,  smell, 
or  name.  *Tln  the  second  place  I  came  ostensibly  as 
a  "  rounder  " ;  it  would  perhaps  have  been  advisable 
Y  at  the  close  of  each  evening's  entertainment  to  draw 
out  note-book  and  pencil  and  starting  the  round  of 
the  table  announce: 

"  Now,  girls,  I  'm  a  dee-tective.  No,  keep  yer 
places,  I  ain't  going  to  pinch  nobody.  Anyhow  I  'm 
only  a  Zone  detective.  But  I  just  want  to  ask  you  a 


290  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

few  questions.  Now,  Mamie,  what 's  that  you  're 
drinking?  Ah!  A  gin  ricky.  And  just  how  much 
does  that  cost  —  here?  And  you,  Flossie?  An  ab- 
sinthe frappe?  Ah!  Very  good.  And  what  is  the 
retail  price  of  that  particular  drink  ?  " —  and  so  on 
ad  nauseum. 

"  Very  true,"  replied  authority,  "  that  would  of 
course  be  impossible.  But  to  be  reimbursed  you 
must  set  down  in  detail  every  item  of  expenditure, 
and  its  price." 

Reason  and  government  red  tape  move  in  two 
parallel  lines,  with  the  usual  meeting-place. 

Nor  was  that  all.  While  the  black  Peruvian  was 
on  my  staff  I  gave  him  money  for  food.  It  was  not 
merely  expected,  it  was  definitely  so  ordered.  Yet 
when  I  set  down: 

"  May  27,  To  Peruvian  for  food  —  $  .50." 
authority  threw  up  its  hands  in  horror.  Did  I 
not  know  that  reimbursements  were  only  for  "  liquor 
and  cigars,  cab.  or  boat  hire,  and  meals  away  from 
home?  "  I  did.  But  I  also  knew  that  superiors  had 
ordered  me  to  feed  the  Peruvian.  "  To  be  sure !  " 
cried  astounded  authority.  "  But  you  set  down 
such  an  expenditure  as  follows: 

"  *  May  27,  Two  bottles  of  beer,  Pan.,  investiga- 
tion—  $  .50.' 

"  And  as  you  are  allowed  cab  fare  only  for  your- 
self, when  you  take  the  Peruvian  or  any  one  else  out 
to  Balboa  in  a  cab  you  set  down  the  item : 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  293 

"  '  May  26,  Cab,  Ancon  to  Balboa  and  return,  in- 
vestigation—  $1.'" 

The  upshot  of  all  which  was,  not  feeling  able  with 
all  my  patriotism  to  "  set  up  "  $45  worth  of  mixed 
drinks  for  Uncle  Sam,  I  was  forced  to  open  another 
investigation  and  gather  from  all  the  Z.  P.  authori- 
ties on  the  subject,  from  Naos  Island  to  Paraiso,  the 
name  and  price  of  every  known  beverage.  Then 
when  I  had  fitted  together  a  picture  puzzle  of  these 
that  summed  up  to  the  amount  I  had  actually  spent, 
I  was  called  upon  to  sign  a  statement  thereunder 
that  "  this  is  a  true  and  exact  account  of  expendi- 
tures during  the  month  of  May.  So  help  me  God." 

But  then,  as  I  have  said  before,  these  things  are 
not  Z.  P.  faults,  they  are  the  faults  of  government 
since  government  began. 

It  had  become  evident  soon  after  the  Inspector's 
return  that  unless  crime  began  to  pick  up  down  at  the 
Pacific  end  of  the  Zone,  I  should  find  myself  again 
banished  to  the  foreign  land  of  Gatun.  For  there 
had  been  a  distinct  rise  in  the  criminal  commodity  at 
that  end  during  the  past  weeks.  The  premonition 
soon  fell  true. 

"Take  the  10:55  to  Gatun,"  said  the  Inspector 
one  morning,  without  looking  up  from  his  filing  case, 
"  Corporal  Macey  will  tell  you  about  it  when  you 
get  there." 


CHAPTER  X 

'"¥  II  THY,  the  fact  is,"  said  Corporal  Macey,  Hght- 
V  V  ing  his  meerschaum  pipe  until  the  match 
burned  down  to  his  fingers,  "  several  little  burglary 
stunts  have  been  pulling  themselves  off  since  the  ser- 
geant went  on  vacation.  But  the  most  aggrayva- 
atin'  is  this  new  one  of  twinty-two  quarts  of  good 
Canadian  Club  bcin'  maliciously  extracted  from  St. 
Martin's  saloon  last  night." 

From  which  important  beginning  I  fell  quickly 
back  into  the  old  life  again,  derelicting  about  Gatun 
and  vicinity  by  day,  wandering  the  nights  away  in 
black,  noisy  New  Gatun  and  along  the  winding  back 
road  under  the  cloud-scudding  sky.  Yet  it  was  a 
different  life.  Gatun  had  changed.  Even  her  con- 
crete light-house  was  winking  all  night  now  up  among 
the  I.  C.  C.  dwellings.  The  breeze  from  off  the 
Caribbean  was  heavy  and  lifeless.  The  landscape 
looked  wet  and  lush  and  rampant,  of  a  deep-seated 
green,  and  instead  of  the  china-blue  skies  the  dull, 
leaden-gray  heavens  seemed  to  hang  low  and  heavy 
overhead,  like  a  portending  fate.  On  the  wind- 
ing back  road  the  jungle  trees  still  stood  out  against 
the  night  sky,  at  times,  too,  there  was  a  moon,  but 

only  a  pale  silver  one  that  peered  weakly  here  and 

294 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  295 

there  through  the  scudding  gray  clouds.  The  air 
grew  more  thick  and  sultry  day  by  day,  the  heat  was 
sticky,  the  weather  dripping,  with  the  sun  only  an  ir- 
regular whitish  blotch  in  the  sky.  Through  the  open 
windows  the  heavy,  damp  night  came  miasmically 
floating  in,  the  very  cigarettes  mildewed  in  my 
pockets.  Earth  and  air  seemed  heavy  and  toil- 
bowed  by  comparison  with  other  days.  The  jungle 
still  hummed  busily,  yet,  it  seemed,  a  bit  mournfully 
as  if  preparing  for  production  and  unhilarious 
with  the  task  before  it,  like  a  woman  first  learning 
of  her  pregnancy.  Life  seemed  to  hang  more  heavily 
even  on  humanity ;  "  Zoners  "  looked  less  gay  and 
carefree  than  in  the  sunny  dry  season,  though  still 
far  more  so  than  in  the  north.  One  could  not  shake 
off  a  premonition  of  impending  disaster  in  I  know 
not  what  form  —  like  that  of  Teufelsdroeck  before 
he  entered  the  "  Center  of  Indifference." 

Dr.  O of  the  Sanitary  Department  had  gone 

up  into  the  interior  along  the  Trinidad  river  to  hunt 
mosquitoes.  Why  he  went  so  far  away  for  them  in 
this  season  was  hard  to  understand.  There  he  was, 
however,  and  the  order  had  come  to  bring  him  back 
to  civilization.  The  execution  thereof  fell,  of  course, 

to  my  friend  B ,  who  to  the  world  at  large  is 

merely  Policeman  No.  ,  to  the  force  "  Admiral 

of  the  Inland  Fleet,"  and  in  the  general  scheme  of 
things  is  a  luckier  man  than  Vanderchild  to  have  for 
his  task  in  life  the  patrolling  of  Gatun  Lake.  B 


296  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

invited  me  to  go  along.  There  was  nothing  particu- 
lar doing  in  the  criminal  line  around  Gatun  just 
then ;  moreover  the  doctor  was  known  to  be  well 
armed  and  there  was  no  telling  just  how  much 
resistance  he  might  offer  a  single  policeman.  I  ac- 
cepted. 

I  was  at  the  appointed  rendezvous  promptly  at 
seven,  a  pocket  filled  with  commissary  cigars.  Strict 
truthfulness  demands  the  admission  that  it  was  really 

eight,  however,  when  B came  wandering  down 

the  muddy  steps  behind  the  railroad  station,  followed 
by  a  black  prisoner  with  a  ten-gallon  can  of  gasoline 
on  his  head.  When  that  had  been  poured  into  the 
tank,  we  were  off  across  the  ever-rising  waters  of 
Gatun  Lake.  For  Gatun  police  launch  is  one  of 
those  peculiar  motor-boats  that  starts  the  same  day 
you  had  planned  to. 

It  was  such  a  day  as  could  not  have  been  bet- 
tered had  it  been  made  to  order,  with  a  week  to  think 
out  the  details, —  a  dry-season  day  even  to  the  At- 
lantic breeze  that  goes  with  it,  a  sort  of  Indian  sum- 
mer of  the  rainy  season;  though  the  heavy  battal- 
ions of  gray  clouds  that  hung  all  around  the  hori- 
zon as  if  awaiting  the  order  to  charge  warned  the 
Zone  to  make  merry  while  it  might,  for  to-morrow  it 
would  surely  rain  —  in  deluges.  The  lake,  much 
higher  now  than  in  my  former  Gatun  days,  was  lick- 
ing at  the  27-foot  level  that  morning.  Under  the 
brilliant  blue  sky  it  looked  like  some  vast  unruffled 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  299 

mirror  —  which  is  no  figure  of  speech,  but  plain 
fact. 

"  Through  a  Forest  in  a  Motor-boat "  we  might 
have  dubbed  the  trip.  We  had  soon  crossed  the  un- 
broken expanse  of  the  lake  and  were  moving  through 
a  submerged  forest.  Splendid  royal  palms  stood  up 
to  their  necks  in  the  water,  corpulent,  century-old 
giants  of  the  jungle  stood  on  tip-toe  with  their 
jagged  noses  just  above  the  surface,  gasping  their 
last.  Great  mango-trees  laden  with  fruit  were  de- 
scending into  the  flood.  The  lake  was  so  mirror- 
like  we  could  see  the  heads  of  drowning  palm-trees 
and  the  blue  sky  with  its  wisps  of  snow-white 
feathery  clouds  as  plainly  below  as  above,  so  mir- 
ror-like the  protruding  stump  of  a  palm  looked  like 
a  piece  of  just  double  that  length  and  exactly  equal 
ends  floating  upright  like  a  water  thermometer,  so 
reflective  that  the  broken  end  of  a  branch  showing 
above  the  surface  appeared  to  be  an  acute  angle  of 
wood  floating  exactly  at  the  angle  in  impossible 
equilibrium. 

Our  prisoner  and  crew  were  from  "  Bahbaydos  " — 
only  you  can't  pronounce  it  as  he  did,  nor  make  the 
"  a  "  broad  enough,  nor  show  the  inside  of  your  red 
throat  clear  back  to  the  soft  palate  to  contrast  with 
the  glistening  black  skin  of  your  carefree,  grinning 
face.  Theoretically  he  was  being  punished  for  as- 
sault and  battery.  But  if  this  is  punishment  to  be 
sentenced  to  cruise  around  on  Gatun  Lake  I  wonder 


300  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

crime  on  the  Zone  is  so  rare  and  unusual.  This  much 
I  am  sure,  if  I  were  in  that  particular  "  Badgyan's  " 
shoes  —  no,  he  had  none ;  but  his  tracks,  say  —  the 
day  my  time  ran  out  I  should  pick  a  quarrel  with  a 
Jamaican  and  leave  his  countenance  in  such  a  condi- 
tion that  the  judge  could  find  no  grounds  for  a  rea- 
sonable doubt  in  the  matter. 

We  were  mounting  the  river  Trinidad.  River, 
yes,  but  we  followed  it  only  because  it  had  kept  back 
the  jungle  and  left  a  way  free  of  tree-tops,  not  be- 
cause there  was  not  water  enough  anywhere,  in  any 
direction,  to  float  a  boat  of  many  times  our  draught. 
Turns  so  sharp  we  rocked  in  our  own  wake ;  once 
we  passed  acres  upon  acres  of  big,  cod-like  fish 
floating  dead  upon  the  water  among  the  branches 
and  the  forest  rubbish.  It  seems  the  lake  in  rising 
spread  over  some  poisonous  mineral  in  the  soil.  But 
life  there  was  none,  except  the  rampant  green  dying 
plant  life  in  every  direction  to  the  horizon.  There 
were  not  even  birds,  other  than  now  and  then  a  stray 
snow-white  slender  one  of  the  heron  species  that  fled 
majestically  away  across  the  face  of  the  nurtureless 
waters  as  we  steamed  —  no,  gasolined  down  upon 
it.  Soon  after  leaving  Gatun  we  had  passed  a 
couple  of  jungle  families  on  their  way  to  market  in 
their  cayucas  laden  with  mounds  of  produce, —  plump 
mangoes  with  a  maidenly  blush  on  either  cheek,  fat 
yellow  bananas,  grass-green  plantains,  a  duck  or  a 
.  chicken  standing  tied  by  one  leg  on  top  of  it  all  and 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  301 

lacently  around  at  the  scene  with  the 
pir^of   nn   Qyppn'pT]ppd   tniin'sfr/XTt  waT  tw(r"hours 

c*~~  T^^** 

later  that  we  sighted  the  next  human  being.  He 
was  a  solitary  old  native  paddling  about  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  "  grass-bird  region  "  in  a  huge  dug- 
out as  time-scarred  as  himself. 

It  was  near  here  that  weeks  before  I  had  turned 
with  "  Admiral  "  B up  a  little  stream  now  for- 
ever gone  to  a  knoll  on  which  sat  the  thatched  shelter 
of  a  negro  who  had  "  taken  to  the  bush  "  and  re- 
fused to  move  even  when  notified  that  he  was  living 
on  U.  S.  public  domain.  When  we  had  knocked  from 
the  trees  a  box  of  mangoes  and  turkey-red 

maranones,  B touched  a  match  to  the  thatch 

roof  and  almost  before  we  could  regain  the  launch 
the  shack  was  pouring  skyward  in  a  column  of 
smoke.  Even  the  squatter's  old  table  and  chair  and 
a  barrel  of  tumbled  odds  and  ends  entirely  outside 
the  hut  —  it  had  no  walls  —  caught  fire,  and 
when  we  lost  sight  of  the  knoll  only  the  blazing 
stumps  of  the  four  poles  that  had  supported  the 
roof  remained. 

B had  burned  whole  villages  in  this  lake  ter- 
ritory, after  the  owners  with  legal  claims  had  been 
paid  condemnation  damages.  Long  ago  the  natives 
had  been  warned  to  move,  and  the  banks  of  the  lake- 
to-be  specified.  But  many  of  these  skeptical  chil- 
dren of  nature  had  taken  this  as  a  vain  "  yanqui  " 
boast  and  either  refused  to  move  until  burned  out  or 


302  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

had  rebuilt  their  hovels  on  land  that  in  a  few  months 
more  would  also  be  flooded. 

The  rescue  expedition  proceeded.  Once  we  got 
caught  in  the  top-most  branches  of  a  tree,  released 
from  which  we  pushed  on  along  the  sinuous  river  that 
had  no  banks.  It  was  not  hot,  even  at  noonday. 
We  sweated  a  bit  in  poling  a  thirty-foot  boat  out  of 
a  tree-top,  but  cooled  again  directly  we  were  off. 
My  kodak  was  far  away  at  the  other  end  of  the  Zone. 
But  then,  on  second  thought  it  was  better  for  once 
to  enjoy  nature  as  it  was  without  trying  to  carry  it 
away.  Kodaking  is  a  species  of  covetousness,  any- 
way, an  attempt  to  bear  away  home  with  us  and 
hoard  for  our  own  the  best  we  come  upon  in  our 
travels.  Whereas  here,  of  course,  it  was  impos- 
sible. The  greatest  of  artists  could  not  have  car- 
ried away  a  tenth  of  that  scene,  a  scene  so  fascina- 
ting that  though  we  had  tossed  into  the  bottom  of 
the  boat  at  the  start  a  bundle  of  fresh  New  York 
papers  —  and  fresh  New  York  papers  are  not  often 
scorned  down  on  the  Zone  —  they  still  lay  in  the 
bottom  of  the  boat  when  the  trip  ended. 

At  length  little  thatched  cottages  began  to  ap- 
pear on  knolls  along  the  way,  and  as  we  chugged  our 
way  around  the  tree-tops  upon  them  the  inhabitants 
slipped  quickly  into  some  clothes  that  were  evidently 
kept  for  just  such  emergencies.  Then  we  began 
nearing  higher  land,  so  that  the  upper  and  then  the 
lower  branches  of  the  forest  stood  out  of  water,  then 


The  edge  of  the  drowning  forest 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  305 

only  the  ends  of  the  lower  limbs  dipped  in  the  rising 
flood,  downcast,  as  if  they  knew  the  sentence  of 
death  was  upon  them  also.  For  though  there  was 
sunk  already  beneath  the  flood  a  forest  greater  than 
ten  Fontainebleaus,  the  lake  was  steadily  rising  a 
full  two  inches  a  day.  Where  it  touched  that  morn- 
ing the  27-foot  level,  in  a  few  months  more,  says 
"the  Colonel,"  it  will  reach  the  87-foot  level  and 
spread  over  one  hundred  and  sixty-four  square  miles 
of  territory  —  and  when  "  the  Colonel  "  makes  an 
assertion  wise  men  hesitate  to  put  their  money  on 
the  other  horse.  Then  will  all  this  vast  area  with 
more  green  than  in  all  the  state  of  Missouri  disap- 
pear forever  beneath  the  flood  and  man  may  dive 
down,  down  into  the  forest  and  see  what  the  world 
was  like  in  Noah's  time,  and  fancy  the  sunken  cities 
of  Holland,  for  many  a  famous  route,  and  villages 
older  than  the  days  of  Pizarro  will  be  forever  wiped 
out  by  the  rising  waters  —  a  scene  to  be  beheld  to- 
day nowhere  else,  and  in  a  few  years  not  even  here. 
At  last  we  were  really  in  a  river,  an  overflowed 
river,  to  be  sure,  where  it  would  have  been  hard  to 
find  a  landing-place  or  a  bank  among  those  tree 
trunks  knee-deep  in  water.  We  had  long  since 
crossed  the  Zone  line,  but  our  badges  were  still 
valid.  For  it  has  pleased  the  Republic  of  Panama, 
at  a  whispered  word  from  "  Tio  Sam,"  to  cede  to 
the  Z.  P.  command  over  all  Gatun  Lake  and  for  three 
miles  around  it,  as  far  as  ever  it  may  spread. 


306  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

Then  all  at  once  we  were  startled  by  a  hearty  hail 

from  among  the  trees  and  I  looked  up  to  see  Y , 

of  the  Smithsonian,  fully  dressed,  standing  waist- 
deep  in  the  water  at  the  edge  of  the  forest,  waving 
an  insect  trap  in  one  hand. 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  doing  there? "  I 
gasped. 

"  Doing?  I  'm  taking  a  walk  along  the  old  Gatun- 
Chorrera  trail,  and  I  fancy  I  '11  be  about  the  last 
man  to  travel  it.  Come  on  up  to  camp." 

On  a  mango-shaped  knoll  thirty  miles  from  Gatun 
that  will  also  soon  be  lake  bottom,  we  found  a  na- 
tive shack  transformed  into  the  headquarters  of  a 
scientific  expedition.  We  sat  down  to  a  frontier 
lunch  which  called  for  none  of  the  excuses  made  for 
it  by  Y when  he  appeared  in  his  dripping  full- 
dress  and  joined  us  without  even  bothering  to  change 
his  water-spurting  shoes.  In  his  boxes  he  had  care- 
fully stuck  away  side  by  side  an  untold  number  of 
members  of  the  mosquito  family.  Queer  vocation; 
but  then,  any  vocation  is  good  that  gives  an  excuse 
to  live  out  in  this  wild  tropical  world. 

By  one  we  had  Dr.  O aboard  and  were  waving 

farewell  to  the  camp.  The  return,  of  course,  was  not 
the  equal  of  the  outward  trip ;  even  nature  cannot 
duplicate  so  perfect  a  thing.  But  two  raging 
showers  gave  us  views  of  the  drowning  jungle  under 
another  aspect,  and  between  them  we  awakened  vast 
rolling  echoes  across  the  silent  flooded  world  by  shoot- 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  507 

ing  at  flocks  of  little  birds  with  an  army  rifle  that 
would  have  killed  an  elephant. 

It  is  not  hard  to  realize  why  the  bush  native  does 
not  love  the  American.  Put  yourself  in  his  breech- 
clout.  Suppose  a  throng  of  unsympathetic  foreign- 
ers suddenly  appeared  resolved  to  turn  all  the  world 
you  knew  into  a  lake,  just  because  that  absurd  out- 
side world  wanted  to  float  steamers  you  never  knew 
the  use  of,  from  somewhere  you  never  heard  of,  to 
somewhere  you  did  not  know.  Suppose  a  represent- 
ative of  that  unsympathetic  government  came  snort- 
ing down  upon  you  one  day  in  a  wild  fearful  inven- 
tion they  called  a  motor-boat,  as  you  were  lolling 
under  the  thatch  roof  your  grandfather  built,  and 
cried : 

"  Come  on !  Get  out  of  here !  We  're  going  to 
burn  your  house  and  turn  this  country  into  a  lake." 

Flood  the  land  which  was  your  great-grand- 
father's, the  spot  where  you  used  to  play  leap-frog 
under  the  banana  trees,  the  jungle  lane  where  your 
mother's  courtship  days  were  passed  and  the  ceiga 
tree  under  which  she  was  wedded  —  if  matters  were 
ever  carried  to  that  ceremonious  length.  What 
though  this  foreign  nation  gave  you  a  bag  of  pe- 
culiar pieces  of  metal  for  your  trouble,  when  you 
had  never  seen  a  score  of  such  coins  in  your  life  and 
barely  knew  the  use  of  them,  being  acquainted  with 
life  only  as  it  is  picked  from  a  mango-tree?  The 
foreigners  had  cried,  "  Take  this  money  and  go  buy 


308  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

a  farm  somewhere  else,"  and  you  looked  around  you 
and  saw  all  the  world  you  had  ever  really  known  the 
existence  of  sinking  beneath  the  rising  waters. 
Where  would  you  go,  think  you,  to  buy  that  new 
farm?  Even  if  you  fled  and  found  another  unknown 
land  high  and  dry,  or  a  town,  what  could  you  do, 
having  not  the  remotest  idea  how  to  live  in  a  town 
with  only  pieces  of  metal  to  get  food  out  of  instead 
of  the  mango-tree  that  had  stood  behind  the  house 
your  grandfather  built  ever  since  you  were  born  and 
dropped  mangoes  whenever  you  were  hungry?  To 
say  the  least  you  would  be  some  peeved. 

It  was  midafternoon  when  the  white  bulk  of 
Gatun  locks  rose  on  the  horizon.  Then  the  lake 
opened  out,  the  great  dam,  that  is  rather  a  connect- 
ing link  between  two  ranges  of  hills,  spread  across  all 
the  landscape,  and  at  four  I  raced  up  the  muddy 
steps  behind  the  station  to  a  telephone.  Five 
minutes  later  I  was  hurrying  away  across  locks  and 
dam  to  the  marshland  beyond  the  Spillway  to  in- 
quire who,  and  wherefore,  had  attempted  to  burn  up 
the  I.  C.  C.  launch  attached  to  dredge  No. . 

My  Canal  Zone  days  were  drawing  rapidly  to  a 
close.  I  could  have  remained  longer  without  regret, 
but  the  world  is  wide  and  life  is  short.  Soon  came 
the  day,  June  seventeenth,  when  I  must  go  back 
across  the  Isthmus  to  clear  up  the  last  threads  of 
my  existence  as  a  "  Zoner."  Chiefly  for  old  times' 
sake  I  dropped  off  at  Empire.  But  it  was  not  the 


S  o- 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  311 

same  Empire  of  the  census.  Almost  all  the  old 
crowd  was  gone ;  one  by  one  they  had  "  kissed  the 
Zone  good-by."  "  The  boss "  of  those  days  had 
never  returned,  "  smiling  Johnny  "  had  been  trans- 
ferred, even  Ben  had  "  done  quit  an'  gone  back  to 
B&hbaydos."  The  Zone  is  like  a  small  section  of 
life ;  as  in  other  places  where  generations  are  short 
one  catches  there  a  hint  of  what  old  age  will  be.  It 
was  like  wandering  over  the  old  campus  when  those 
who  were  freshmen  in  our  day  had  hawked  their 
gowns  and  mortarboards  and  gone  their  way;  I  felt 
like  a  man  in  his  dotage  with  only  the  new,  unknown, 
and  indifferent  generation  about  him. 

I  went  down  to  the  old  suspension  bridge.  Far 
down  below  was  the  same  struggling  energy,  the 
same  gangs  of  upright  human  ants,  the  "  cut  "  with 
its  jangle  and  jar  of  steam-shovels  and  trains  still 
stretching  away  endless  in  either  direction.  Here 
as  in  the  world  at  large  generations  of  us  may 
come  and  pass  away,  but  the  tearing  of  the  shovels 
at  the  rocky  earth,  the  racing  of  dirt-laden  trains 
for  the  Pacific  goes  unbrokenly  on,  as  the  world  and 
its  work  will  continue  without  a  pause  when  we  are 
gone  indeed. 

Soon  the  water  will  be  turned  in  and  nine-tenths 
of  all  this  labor  will  be  submerged  and  forever  hid- 
den from  view.  The  swift  growth  of  the  tropics 
will  quickly  heal  the  scars  of  the  steam-shovels,  and 
palm-trees  will  wave  the  steamer  on  its  way  through 


312  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

what  will  seem  almost  a  natural  channel.  Then 
blase  travelers  lolling  in  their  deck  chairs  will  gaze 
about  them  and  snort: 

"  Huh !  Is  that  all  we  got  for  nine  years'  work 
and  half  a  billion  dollars  ?  "  They  will  have  for- 
gotten the  scrubbing  of  Panama  and  Colon,  forgot- 
ten the  vast  hospitals  with  great  surgeons  and 
graduate  nurses,  the  building  of  hundreds  of  houses 
and  the  furnishing  of  them  down  to  the  last  center 
table,  they  will  not  recall  the  rebuilding  of  the  entire 
P.  R.  R.,  nor  scores  of  little  items  like  $43,000  a 
year  merely  for  oil  and  negroes  to  pump  it  on  the 
pestilent  mosquito,  the  thousand  and  one  little  things 
so  essential  to  the  success  of  the  enterprise  yet  that 
leave  not  a  trace  behind.  Greater  perhaps  than  the 
building  of  the  canal  is  the  accomplishment  of  the 
United  States  in  showing  the  natives  how  life  can  be 
lived  safely  and  healthily  in  tropical  jungles.  Yet 
the  lesson  will  not  be  learned,  and  on  the  heels  of 
the  last  canal  builder  will  return  all  the  old  slovenli- 
ness and  disease,  and  the  native  will  sink  back 
into  just  what  he  would  have  been  had  we  never 
come. 

I  caught  a  dirt-train  to  Balboa.  There  the  very 
town  at  which  I  had  landed  on  the  Zone  five  months 
before  was  being  razed  to  give  place  to  the  perma- 
nent, reenforced-concrete  city  that  is  to  be  the 
canal  headquarters.  Balboa  police  station  was  only 
a  pile  of  lumber,  with  a  band  of  negroes  drilling 


ZONE  POLICEMAN  88  313 

away  the  very  rock  on  which  it  had  stood.  I  took 
a  last  view  of  the  Pacific  and  her  islands  to  far  Ta- 
boga,  where  Uncle  Sam  sends  his  recuperating  chil- 
dren to  enjoy  the  sea  baths,  hill  climbs,  and  unri- 
valed pine-apples.  It  was  never  my  good  fortune  to 
get  to  Taboga.  With  thirty  days'  sick  leave  a  year 
and  countless  ailments  of  which  I  might  have  been 
cured  free  of  charge  and  with  the  best  of  care, 
I  could  not  catch  a  thing.  I  had  not  even  the  luck 
of  my  friend  —  who,  by  dint  of  cross-country  runs 
in  the  jungle  at  noonday  and  similar  industrious 
efforts,  worked  up  at  last  a  temperature  of  99°  and 
got  his  week  at  Taboga.  I  stuck  immovable  at 
98.6°. 

Soon  after  five  I  had  bidden  Ancon  farewell  and 
set  off  on  the  last  ride  across  the  Isthmus.  There 
was  a  memory  tucked  away  in  every  corner.  Corozal 
hotel  was  still  rattling  with  dishes,  Paraiso  peeped 
out  from  its  lap  of  hills,  Culebra  with  its  penitentiary 
where  burglarizing  negroes  go,  sunk  away  into  the 
past.  Railroad  Avenue  in  Empire  was  still  lined 
with  my  "  enumerated  "  tags ;  through  an  open  door 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  familiar  short  figure,  one 
foot  resting  lightly  and  familiarly  on  a  misapplied 
gas-pipe,  the  elbow  crooked  as  if  something  were 
held  between  the  fingers.  At  Bas  Obispo  I  strained 
my  eyes  in  vain  to  make  out  a  familiar  face  in 
the  familiar  uniform,  there  was  a  glimpse  of  "  Old 
Fritz "  water-gauge  as  we  rumbled  across  the 


314  ZONE  POLICEMAN  88 

Chagres,  and  the  train  churned  away  into  the  heavy 
green  uninhabited  night. 

Only  once  more  was  I  aroused,  as  the  lights  of 
Gatun  flashed  up ;  then  we  rolled  past  the  noisy  glar- 
ing corner  of  New  Gatun  and  on  to  Colon.  In 
Cristobal  police  station  I  put  badge  and  passes  into 
a  heavy  envelope  and  dropped  them  into  the  train- 
guard's  box;  then  turned  in  for  my  last  night  on 
the  Zone.  For  the  steamer  already  had  her  fires  up 
that  would  bear  me,  and  him  who  was  the  studious 
corporal  of  Miraflores,  away  in  the  morning  to 
South  America.  My  police  days  were  ended. 

Then  a  last  hand  to  you  all,  oh,  Z.  P.  May  you 
live  long  and  continue  to  do  your  duty  frankly  and 
unafraid.  I  found  you  men  when  I  expected  only 
policemen.  I  reckon  my  days  among  you  time  well 
spent  and  I  left  you  regretting  that  I  could  stay  no 
longer  with  you  —  and  when  I  leave  any  place  with 
regret  it  must  be  possessed  of  some  exceeding  subtle 
charm.  But  though  the  world  is  large,  it  is  also 
small. 

"  So  I'll  meet  you  later  on, 
In  the  place  where  you  have  gone, 
Where—" 

Well,  say  at  San  Francisco  in  1915,  anyway. 
Hasta  luego. 

THE    END 


"Something  Absolutely  New  in  the  Way  of  Travels!" 

A  VAGABOND  JOURNEY 
AROUND  THE  WORLD 

By  HARRY  A.  FRANCK 

Here  is  a  book  to  delight  every  one,  young  or  old,  who  cares 
for  adventure.  It  is  the  story  of  a  young  university  man's 
fifteen  months'  wanderings  around  the  globe,  absolutely  with- 
out money  save  what  he  earned  by  the  way.  He  had  keen 
powers  of  observation ;  he  was  intensely  interested  in  every  man, 
woman  and  child  he  met,  however  wretched  and  low-caste;  he 
had  the  Yankee  trait  of  making  himself  easily  at  home  in  any 
and  all  circumstances}  and  his  story  of  his  wanderings  is 

THE  MOST  VIVID  PICTURE  OF 

NATIVE  LIFE  IN  STRANGE  CORNERS  OF 

THE  WORLD  THAT  HAS  EVER 

BEEN  PRESENTED 

French  tramps,  underground  denizens  of  German  cities,  Arabs 
of  the  desert,  high-  and  low-caste  people  of  India, — these,  and 
countless  others,  are  shown  as  real  personalities  and  they  stand 
out  with  the  vividness  of  Kipling  characters. 

THE  AUTHOR'S  PERSONAL  ADVENTURES 

alone  give  distinction  and  tremendous  interest  to  this  really 
important  book,  every  page  of  which  glows  with  life. 

Mr.  Franck  carried  a  camera  with  him  through  all  his  journey- 
ings,  and  he  kept  a  very  live  scrap-book.  The  many  illustra- 
tions of  "A  Vagabond  Journey"  —  there  are  sixty-four  insets 
and  more  than  one  hundred  pictures  —  are  reproductions  of 
these  photographs,  and  they  tell  a  vivid  story. 

Royal  8vo,  502  pages.     Price  $3.50  net,  postage  23  cents 


PUBLISHED  BY 

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